


The Summer's So Fine (But Winter Ain't Gonna Be Kind)

by Owwwwl



Series: Battle for the Sun [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, BAMF Jon Snow, Canon-Typical Violence, Catelyn Tully Stark Doesn't Hate Jon Snow, F/M, Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, Implied/Referenced Incest, Jon Snow Knows Something, R Plus L Equals J, Time Travel, War, Warg Jon Snow
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-04
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2020-07-30 16:23:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 16
Words: 45,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20100124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Owwwwl/pseuds/Owwwwl
Summary: They were overpowered by The Night King and all hope seemed to be lost. Then, Bran hatches an idea. A crazy one, but an idea nonetheless.As Jon awakes in Winterfell almost a decade prior, he is hell-bent on stopping the Long Night. His is mind is older, his knowledge larger, and instead of carrying around shame, he carries around pride.Get ready, because Jon will stop at nothing to change the future.*Name change from Battle for the Sun*





	1. Jon I

The sun must have not been a good swordsman, considering it hadn’t fought itself to the sky for years now. Instead, the dark heaviness of the snow clouds blocked the light out, pummeled the star far beneath the horizon where no Westorosi could be gifted with its glorious rays. The clouds must’ve wounded the sun, either in body or in pride, because it seemed as if the darkness was everlasting, neverending. The clouds set the entire nation into perpetual gloom. It wearied faces, paled skin, and made everyone go about sluggishly, as if moving through molasses. Perhaps they hadn’t seen the light for so long that they had unwillingly joined the side of the clouds. Perhaps every frown aided the darkness, added to the thick blanket of dismal shadow, and weakened the sun. If so, the sun would never fight its way to the sky again.

Despite these ponderings, Jon Snow was tired. Tired and grim. At first, when he still remembered how the sun felt on his skin (warm and soft and light), he had put up a facade of optimism. But alas, not even he bothered with that anymore.

The Night King was winning. There was no doubt. He and his army gained stronger by the day, fueled by the surplus of the crimson blood of his friends and the bone-chilling cold of the Long Night. Every day they fought tooth and nail, every day their ranks grew smaller and their enemy’s grew larger.

Winning was near impossible. Valyrian Steel was sparse, and Dragonglass was brittle. Their horses have long died, too costly to take care of and their protein-rich meat too precious. Nightmares (or were they premonitions?) plagued every man and woman in the land and left the nation sleep-deprived, temperamental, and lethargic. Somehow, though, through this heaviness, arose a plan. A plan so out of this world that it could only stem from a people so desperate, tired, and cold. A plan that might be their only shot at winning, and a plan that just might work.

* * *

The weirwood tree stood ancient, powerful. A beacon of hope shining through the snow. Its red leaves stood out. Before this tree had come into view, it seemed like the world was without color, everything grey and black and white and _ listless. _It was nice to see something red. Other than blood, that is. Bran sat, his eyes staring intently at the tree.

“If the gods are willing,” he started, his voice flat, “and if my power proves true, you can stop the long night before it even begins.” 

He turned to look at Jon, his empty gaze chilling, “Time will be turned back. Father will be alive. Arya, Sansa, Rickon, Mother. Daenerys, Jaime, Tormund. They will all be alive and unknowing of the night to come. The Long Night must be known, be feared, if it will be thwarted, but Jon, there are also things better off unknown.”

Bran, as stoic as always, turned back around to face the tree, and Jon is left unsettled. He wanted this, wanted it so, so much. He wanted it with every fiber of his being, with every beat of his heart. He wanted his family, his friends. He wanted the _ sun, _ the _ light, _ the _ hope _ in which he once had _ , _but his little brother’s words were still unsettling. How was he, a single man, who would not yet be grown in body, but all too old in mind, stop the thousands of deaths and traitorous actions which now haunted him? How was he, a man so small, to stop events so large, so imposing? And most importantly, how was he to know what to do, if his actions would actually benefit the cause?

The answer was simple: he wasn’t to know. He would go in blind, with only the memory of death on his mind and his family at his fingertips. _It sounds so little,_ Jon thought, _but_ _death and family just might be the most powerful incentives there are_. He felt Bran’s disquieting stare on him once more, and the weight of his eyes upon him brought Jon out of his doom-filled reverie.

“You know what I need for the spell to start.” 

Bran’s monotone words formed a statement, leaving Jon no doubt of the Raven’s all-knowing. He did know what Bran needed., after all. Unhesitant, but with slight wariness, he drew a knife from his scabbard, trying not to look Bran in the eyes.

“The blood of old Valyria,” Jon muttered as the blade slit the skin on his palm. The pain, although present, blended in with the fierce cold air, leaving his hand with a prickling sensation. He paused a second in morbid fascination, watching the deep scarlet pool into his pale hand. Jon could feel Bran’s expectant eyes on him, so he stepped closer to the weirwood, and flipped his hand so that the blood dripped onto the tree’s ashen bark. 

He spared a glance at Bran when the weight of the Raven’s eyes seemed to move elsewhere. His head was tilted back at the cloudy sky, his eyes a startling milky white. The greenseer seemed to be vibrating with the old energy of the godswood, his chest moving up in down in quick breaths. He started to chant in a tongue unknown to Jon, and, as he presumed, unknown to everyone but the Three-Eyed-Raven for centuries. It was deep and guttural and formed a pit in Jon’s stomach. The godswood seemed to thrum around him in an unseen power, the air alight with magick. Jon let his eyelids droop shut for a moment, letting the magik and energy wash over him like a spring breeze, soft, yet powerful. Old, yet young. 

The ever-turning of his mind and his thoughts of the impending battle turned his focus back to the present. Soon enough, he will be waking to the sunrise in Winterfell, but now, he was a battle to fight.

* * *

He walked back into camp, trekking through the increasing snow that blanketed Westeros. The snow was thick, wet, sticky, and heavy, very much unlike the soft and light snow summer flurries brought. It fell down in sheets, and froze your eyelashes and numbed your nose. As Jon shuffled through the deep snow, the people in the encampment’s eyes follow his frame, silently stopping whatever meager activities they were doing before he made his presence known.

“The Night King is the closest he’s ever been,” Jon is past sugar-coating and pleasantries. They all are. “He marches with an army of our friends, our family, our comrades, our leaders. They don't hesitate in striking us down, so we will not either.”

He eyes scan the somber faces of the crowd, knowing that, logically, there will be some form of hesitation. Even he hesitated when he had to take his sharp blade to Daenerys. 

“If all goes to plan, we will be waking up years in the past. We will be waking with the sun in our eyes. This could very well be the last battle we fight in the darkness. And the darkness is oppressive. It lays over us all as if it were the sky itself, pervading. But it is not the sky. We know that because we have seen the sky, no matter how long ago. We have seen the sky turn colors when the sun rises, or sets. We have seen it cerulean, with drifting clouds feathery. Prepare yourselves. Fight in the darkness, but battle for the sun.”

“Hear! Hear!” A wilding’s voice raised from the crowd, along with a puff of visible breath, and soon enough the entire camp repeated him, shouting his words to the heavens. Jon allowed a small smile to grace his face. Oh, it’s been so long since he smiled last!

He forced himself to clear his throat, the crowd quieting into hushed murmurs, then to quiescence. He was silent for a moment, and the world felt still. No gale blew, no animal moved. It felt like the Earth itself was holding its breath. And somehow, that stillness, that silence, filled him with a small spark of confidence. Even the wilderness was waiting for him to speak

“Gather your weapons, gather your armor, gather your pride. If this is the last battle, we might as well show them how they may have broken us, but they have not shattered us to unrepair. We will be taking the offensive.”

Jon’s last sentence is met with confused glances and a low buzz of conversation, but he keeps on speaking, knowing they will soon understand.

“We will charge them with our small dragonglass daggers, and our bruised faces, and they will be thinking “_ Fools. What fools these people are!” _ And we are fools. But we are fools with nothing to lose but our own lives. And we don’t fear death! Not with everything we’ve been through. Laugh at them, think “ _ Fools. What fools these undead are!” _As I said before, we don’t battle to win over them. Not now, we don’t. We battle for the sun.” 

Jon ducked his head, “Thank you.”

They hooted and hollered as they rummaged for their weapons, singing songs about sunlight and royalty, understanding of what they were about to do. Jon joined as he unsheathed Longclaw, letting out a hearty laugh.

“Onwards!” he called out, “To the battle site!”

They clustered together, weapons raised in the air, shouting savage cries of war. As they turned the corner, they stopped, barely refraining from tumbling down the hill. and stared ahead for a pregnant moment, holding their breaths. The Night King and his army of undead stared back. Jon turns his head to the left, then to the right. He looks at the Night King once more.

He barely had time to think _ fool! _ before everyone around him was running at The Night King and his army of thousands, every step of theirs like thunder against the frozen ground. They screamed and pounded their chests, joyously laughing with the wind. And Jon felt _ alive _. With death imminent, he felt he felt more alive than he had in months. His hair fanned out behind him and his mouth opened wide in a battle cry. Even as Longclaw clashed into a sword of a wightwalker, he felt invigorated, rejuvenated.

Jon felt the wolfsblood pumping through his veins, ancient and prideful. He felt the dragonsblood rushing from his heart, determined and certain. He felt his ancestors in his mind, Stark and Targaryen, humming in his ear. He was old, he was new. He was ice, he was fire.

Jon succumbed to his primal instincts. his mind falling blank as his well-trained muscles took over. He fought like a demon, slashing and jabbing everywhere, not even cautious that he might hit a comrade. They were so outnumbered that the odds were too unlikely that someone would get that close to him. 

Longclaw clashed and clanged, and even as the exuberant screams of his army turned pain-filled and grief-stricken, Jon fought on. His vision was red, blood and sweat rested upon his brow. He spun in a dance unknown to all but him, he listened to music no other could hear. And then, his hard eyes found a blue scalp from above the masses. The Night King.

Jon slashed his way toward the towering beast. _ You! _ he wanted to scream, _ You’ve caused me so much pain and suffering! You’ve caused my family __so much pain and suffering! _ He doubts anyone will spare a second thought if he actually did voice those words, but he keeps them in his head anyway, allowing them to harden. He stops his movement for as long as he dares, to look up at the Night King’s glowing blue eyes.

_ This was a suicide mission anyway,_ Jon resolves, and he quickly sends out a short prayer that Bran will finish the spell soon before he raises Longclaw above his head and charges.

He is a wolf. He is a dragon. He is Jon Snow, Bastard of Winterfell. He is Jaehaerys Targaryen III, the rightful heir of the Iron Throne. He is all this, but above all, he is _ angry. _ Jon barely takes notice of his surroundings when he attacks the Night King, just going at it with all he was worth. And just when he registers a sharp pain in his gut of a spearhead, light overcomes his vision.

_Bran_ is his only desperate thought as his eyes close into darkness.


	2. Jon II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon awakes in Winterfell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update 8/7/19: Jon only tells Ned, Catelyn, and Robb instead of the entire family. Changed this because everyone besides those three would have little advantage in knowing plot-wise.

**Jon II**

Even before Jon opened his eyes he knew the plan had worked. Not only did he feel a soft featherbed beneath his back, and his torso felt no pain, but his face was warm and golden light seeped through his shut eyelids. _ The sun. _

Jon’s eyes joyously sprang open as he swung his legs over the bed and stumbled towards the window. He stuck his head out into the day basking in the sun. A southern would call it chilly, but to Jon, it was warm. It was so, so warm.

The sky was painted a beautiful gradient of tangerine orange to coral pink and the sun was a beacon from above the horizon. It shone bright, and it’s warm rays washed over Winterfell like a wave. 

Jon turned around to look at his room. It was smaller than his siblings’ but Jon preferred it that way, considering he didn’t own many chattels to fill the space. An old oak desk sat strong and true to the left of him, and a slightly worn fur rug was beneath his feet, shielding them from the cool stone. A small bookshelf was planted near Jon’s bed, holding battered tales of the knights of old. His closet was near the corner of his room, holding his linens. It felt weird to look into his closet and see only that. No armor, no furs. He supposes he had no real need of them before he trekked to the wall with his Uncle Benjen.

_Uncle Benjen!_ _He was still alive! _Jon could barely hold in his excitement. His entire family! They were alive again!

Quickly grabbing a tunic, trousers, and his favorite pair of leather boots, he gets dressed in haste. While lacing his boots, he spares a thought to how he was going to stop everything. The first thing that came to mind was to somehow thwart Jon Arryn’s death, but he could hardly do that as a boy in Winterfell. At first, on all accounts, his father cannot accept Robert Baratheon’s offer and Hand. Just by doing that he could save his father’s, Robb’s, and Lady Catelyn’s lives (although he does guiltily admit he shed no tears over the latter). Step two, would be to gain an alliance with the free folk and to start to prevent the Night King’s rise to power.

Jon sighed as he finished with his boots. _ Easier said than done. _ How was he, a teenaged bastard of the North’s liege lord, going to accomplish all that all by himself? He quickly sucked in a breath as a realization came to mind. He didn’t need to do it all by himself.

Oddly enough, Jon had never even considered telling his Lord Father of his peculiar situation. His father could do a lot more than Jon could, after all. But the real problem was whether or not he’d believe him. The Night King, time travel? If you had talked of that to the young Jon he would scoff maybe call Maester Luwin. But he had evidence. 

No one in the world besides Jon’s father was supposed to know of his true parentage. Restating these facts could be his proof. Jon also knew that despite intervention, Bran would become crippled anyway, something about losing his legs in order to fly. Telling his father beforehand, and having him witness the crippling himself, would be sure proof of his predicament, if not prophetic dreams.

Standing up from his bed, he confidently strolled out into the hallway. His family would probably be heading down to break their fast in the dining hall around now. Afterward, he’d try to steal some time away and meet with his father in his solar. Maybe even the rest of his family too. He mulled over that thought. Lady Catelyn certainly deserved to know of Jon’s true parentage considering she had falsely thought her husband had cheated on her until she died. His siblings were a different matter, though. Arya and Sansa were still young, he had to remember. Arya was not let a Faceless Man, dangerous, sadistic, and cold, but a young girl, who just wanted to spar with her brothers. Sansa, perhaps, was the most different. Unforgiving circumstances in which had been forced onto her had made his little sister far from the naive and proper girl she was now. He guessed he’d have to leave them out of the equation, as well as Bran and Rickon, because of their age.

Robb, on the other hand, deserved to know in Jon’s opinion. He was old enough in the present and was pretty consistent in his responses. And gods forbid something happens to their father, Robb will have to know and aid Jon. He had missed Robb’s companionship, as well, and remembered the deep bond they shared before he went to the wall. If Robb found out of Jon’s predicament from anyone but himself, their relationship might be ruined.

_ Yes, _ he decided, _ I’ll tell Father and Robb, and maybe Lady Catelyn depending on her willingness to listen. _

As he walked the halls of Winterfell he is confronted with ghosts. Even the maids and servants passing by in their morning chores seemed surreal. Almost everyone he passed had died. Him, with his throat slit, her with her head bashed. He stared at his own feet as he walked because he couldn’t help the illusions of his morbid mind. The royal part of him screamed at him to keep his head held high, to confront his demons and keep his dignity. That part of his was losing the battle.

He soon found his way to the door of the dining hall, and without his permission, his feet stopped before the threshold. He brought his head up slowly, readying himself for the sight he would soon see. Even still, he had to brace a shaky arm upon the doorframe to steady himself as he gazed upon the smiling faces of his kin.

Arya was playing with her oats, trying to fling them onto Sansa using only her spoon. Lady Catelyn had a look on her face directed at Arya which Jon himself knew all too well. She knew better than to attempt to stop Arya, though, they both knew who had stronger will. Sansa looked like she had swallowed a lemon, her face pinched up in a scowl and her brows furrowed. Despite Arya’s antics, she still kept her poise, one Jon knew would only solidify her as more of a leader in the future. Bran talked animatedly to her father, most likely about knightship and heroes. His father, in return, from the looks of it, was trying and subsequently failing at getting Bran to eat his food. Rickon, in regards to food, was smearing it upon the table cloth, enjoying the focus of his parents being elsewhere. And Robb was looking straight at Jon, hands beckoning him towards the table.

Jon smiled, and as he moved to the table he felt as if his soul had detached from his body and he was observing his life from an outsider’s point of view. He hardly felt like this was real, and that he was actually walking towards his family, all alive and well.

“Jon, you good?” Robb asked, concerned.

“Yes,” Jon replied, still in a slight haze from seeing his dead family once more, “Just didn’t sleep too well last night, dreams kept me up.”

Robb made a noise of understanding, “Maester Luwin has sleeping drought that works like a charm if you ever need it. Want to spar with Theon and I after we're done eating?”

At first, it took all of Jon’s willpower to not accept the offer just for the opportunity to pummel Theon with his newfound sword skills. Then, he realized he had to decline.

“Actually, Robb, I need to speak to father. And you for that matter.” Jon’s gaze drifted across the table where his father sat.. Robb stared at him with his Tully blue eyes, confused.

“What?”

“Just trust me, brother.”

Jon then turns his grey eyes to the table, and almost balks at the surplus of food. He hasn’t had fresh food in such a long time. Bread, fruit, cheese, eggs, bacon, oats, stew. He piled his plate with a famished look, savoring the delectable taste of the food of Winterfell.

Jon then forced himself to pause his gluttony, and rose from his chair to make his way towards his father. Ned Stark seemed to have resigned himself to Rickon’s food ignoration, and just tuned out the toddler’s ramblings with a faraway look in his eyes.

“Father?” Jon said, getting the Lord’s attention along with the Lady’s glare, “There is something important I must discuss with Robb, your Lady Wife, and you in private after we are done eating. Is that okay?”

Although Jon keeps his voice level, his father must have sensed his urgency, or perhaps knew that it must be urgent because Jon directly asks for attention. Ned Stark nodded, and Jon was suddenly grateful for his father keeping this on the down-low. No one at the table besides Robb and Lady Catelyn seemed to take notice of their discussion, which worked out splendidly in regards to his plan.

“Yes, Jon. We will all meet in my solar after this. May I ask what we need to discuss so crucially?”

“Something that sounds mad, but is in fact life and death. I swear I am not jesting.”

Jon solemnly nodded and walked back to his chair to resume his binging, trying to ignore his father’s eyes on his back. Once he sat down and ate some more, he felt the eyes scan elsewhere.

“Gods, Jon, it’s like you haven’t eaten in days!” Robb remarked from beside him.

Jon let out a chuckle, turning to look Robb in the eyes, “You don’t even know.”

Robb puzzledly stares at him while Jon unabashedly guzzles down some oats, “You aren’t acting like yourself. Does it have to do with what we’re going to talk about in father’s solar?

“Uhh, yes,” Jon mumbles, “Wonderful observation skills, Robb” He leaves the conversation at that, and ducks his head to shovel more food into his mouth. He pretends not to notice the hurt look in Robb’s eyes.

Jon knew he was being cross and crabby, but once they knew what he’d been through they’d be sure to understand. Still, Jon out improving both his behavior and attitude into the back of his mind to work on once things were settled.

After Jon had eaten so much food in such little time that he felt like his stomach might explode, he forced himself out of his chair. Somehow, despite his excessive consumption, he finished first, probably because of the ungodly speed he ate at. He asked to be excused, and his father granted his permission. Jon wiped crumbs from his tunic, and briskly started to walk to his father’s solar, his strides steady despite his inner distress.

He was truly a man changed. A man didn’t fight in several wars and lose all of his friends and family and come back unscathed, both physically and mentally. It pains him, partly, to know that his family knew one Jon yesterday and woke up this morning to see a completely new one. It’s something they’d have to deal with, though. He is no longer a pubescent bastard but a fully-grown leader. He can’t go back to who he was all those years ago.

Is he now to serious and old-souled to play and joke with Arya? Will Robb still see him as a friend, a brother, rather than a hardened cousin. Will Sansa keep her nose in the air and shun him further? His father will surely pity him now, and pity is most certainly not what Jon wants. Will Lady Catelyn apologize for her actions when the truth of his parentage comes out? Or maybe she’d see him as even more of a stain, considering he wasn’t able to fully stand for the Starks nor the Targaryens. Will little Bran and Rickon sense the change in him, and will they grow further apart because of it? This decision of his could very well be a familial disaster.

_ But all that matters is keeping them alive _ , Jon reassured himself, _ even if they now hate you, at least they’re not mere ashes lost in the snow. _Jon isn’t reassured, though. Is he selfish, to want to salvage and form relationships with his family when he should be plain grateful for having them back? Perhaps.

Jon’s nervousness must’ve lead to a quickened walking pace, because he found himself at the door of his father’s solar before he expected himself too. Stepping forward, Jon opens the heavy wooden door, hearing it creak slightly. 

He takes a seat in a chair across from his father’s massive pine desk, and bounces his leg, anxiously awaiting his family.

_ Where does he even start? _The story is incredibly long, and the first half he only knows from the anecdotes of others. The first half, unfortunately, is also the most immediate and pressing. Does he get into the details of Sansa’s captivity, the mutiny at Castle Black, and the Red Wedding? Or does he spare them the fate of knowing?

The second half, on the other hand, Jon could talk about for days. Daenerys’s ill-fated reign upon the iron throne and her death by his hands he will only talk about for a few minutes but preparations needed for the Long Night, the Night’s Watch, the Free Folk, the Three Eyed Raven, and the Wights will take up most of his tale, he supposed. But how was he to get everyone to believe in them when they view what haunts him as a children’s story, a fairytale? 

Before his concerns got the best of his fragile mind, the door opened once more and the group he selected strolled in. Seeing them alive calmed some of his nerves, despite them being the objects of some of his worries. Jon took a deep breath, lightly closing his eyes as they all settled in around him. 

He kept his eyes shut despite feeling the heavy weight of everyone's piercing gaze upon him. Jon sighs again, unable to stop the shakiness of his breath.

“What I am about to say sounds completely mad, I must admit, but I swear upon the gods old and new that everything I am about to say is the complete and utter truth.”

Jon scanned the room, taking note of the trio’s faces. Almost all wore an identical look of concern and disbelief. It was times like these were Jon felt more like a black sheep and was reminded that he, in fact, was not the biological brother and son to these people. Although some of his siblings looked more Stark, and some resembled stronger to their Tully side, they wore the same countenances at times. Jon’s demeanor, or so he was told, was his Rhaegar’s through and through. John cleared his throat, getting back to the topic at hand.

“This is my second chance at life,” he started, choosing to omit his death and resurrection at Melisandre’s hands. “I woke up today, as a boy of ten and three, when just yesterday my soul was in my body of twenty and eight.” He quickly continued to talk, trying to foil the beginnings of scoffs and outcries around the room.

“In the future, there are no Starks alive besides Bran. They all die preventable deaths. I, by the fate of the gods, perhaps, survived long enough for Bran to send my back in time, before everything went to shit. I am here to help save your lives and countless others. I am here to prevent wars. Believe me or don’t, but I will not allow tragedy to befall this nation once more. Not on my watch.” They seem shocked at the seriosity Jon had while speaking those absurd words.

“Jon, my son,” his father started, overlooking Lady Catelyn’s glare at the way he addressed him, “I trust you, but this sounds… this sounds absolutely mad! How can you expect us to believe this?” Sounds and movements of agreement permeated throughout the room.

“I know who my mother is,” Jon blurted out confidently.

His father’s face went a sickly shade of pale as the room burst into a flurry of noise and motion.

“You do? Who?” asked Robb skeptically.

“Who is she?” he heard Lady Stark say sharply, “Who is your mother? Ned? How did the bastard find out? Talk to me, please!”

“And on the topic,” Jon projected above the racket, turning to look directly into his father’s eyes steely eyes, “I also know who my father is.”

The solar erupted into an incredulous uproar, but his father, with a few stern words, hushed his wife and heir.

“How?”

His father’s voice sounds shakier than Jon’s ever heard it before, and Jon is shocked to see small tears rolling down his father’s face.

“Who told you? How’d you find out?”

The Starks jaws were hanging down to the floor at the realization that Eddard Stark was not, indeed, Jon Snow’s father. Lady Stark seemed as if she was about to collapse in on herself.

“There were records in the citadel. And a greenseer told me.” Jon resolved not to mention the Three Eyed Raven version of Bran until the story he undoubtedly would be telling came to it.

“I understand why you kept it a secret,” Jon began, a little startled at the small wobble in his words, “I don’t resent you for it. But you might want to tell everyone, father, to lift the weight off your shoulders. Then, I can tell you about the series of events which happened in my timeline and how we can start to prevent it.”

Jon’s father breathed deeply, “For Jon’s young life, and for the love of my family, I kept his parentage a secret, you must understand, but..” he sighed, “I do suppose it is time to come clean. Whatever I am about to say, though, is to never be repeated. You hear me?

“I swear it upon the gods old and new,” Robb said excitedly, but now slightly solemn. Lady Catelyn reluctantly echoed her son’s statement. She was on the verge of tears. Despite the trouble she put him through in his childhood, Jon has had over a decade to absolve the Lady of Winterfell for her actions. A part of him even feels pity for her right now, having her world tipped upside down and all.

“Jon is not my bastard,” his father began, “In fact, Jon is not anybody’s bastard. He is, in truth, the trueborn son to my dear sister Lyanna Stark, and Rhaegar Targaryen. Lyanna went with Rhaegar willingly, why she never told anyone I’ll never know. They married in a secret ceremony in Dorne.” The Lord of Winterfell, usually so strong and stoic, now had tears pouring down his face, “_ Promise me, Ned, _ that's what she said. She made me promise to protect Jon. And I- I couldn’t very well say he was the last of the dragons and heir to the Iron Throne in front of Robert, now could I? He would’ve murdered you him without question, even as a babe. You all know what happened to Elia Martell and her children. What Robert did to them.” He let out a heart-wrenching sob, “I should’ve told you, Catelyn, I know I should've, but we were so young then, and we barely knew each other. I felt as if I was the only person I could trust in this world. I’m sorry Catelyn, I really am.”

A pregnant pause filled to solar as everyone digested to shocking information.

“Well, Jon,” Robb started, “I suppose you can start your story of the future. Seems like your proof was more than enough.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed! I'm going camping soon, and I may or may not be able to squeeze a chapter out before then. Let's just hope!


	3. Robb I

His mind was reeling. Jon was actually his trueborn cousin rather than his bastard brother. And he had traveled back in time! It seemed as if it came from a song: A secret time-traveling king raised as a bastard. A king! Jon was a rightful king! Jon would be a good King, he supposed. Fair, humble, observant and kind, but stern and serious all the same. 

And the time travel thing! Robb, being a descendant of the First Men, had some knowledge of magic himself, but was taught that it died out long ago. The thought of magic bringing Jon back to life seemed almost absurd! And Bran doing it! It was proof that the Old Gods were more than just myth, despite what his mother always believed.

He turned his gaze to the woman in question. His mother was aghast, wet tears rolling down her ashen face. Was she shocked? Angry? Sad? He tried to figure out what she was feeling, but couldn't. If he was her, he would be feeling everything at once. Finding out that your husband’s bastard, whom you treated with disdain, was time traveling royalty would sure do that to a person.

He faintly heard his brother (cousin?) clearing his throat.

“We don’t have to do this right now if you want. I mean, if you all need time to mull things over… The information I need to tell you needs to be, well, told, but we have years to implement action. We can wait a day. I understand that it’s a lot.”

“To say the least,” Robb added with the smallest hint of humor.

“Yes we would like some time, Jon. Thank you for informing us of this,” his father paused to formulate his thoughts, “You may be much older in mind, Jon, but in body you are still young. The Jon Snow today has to align with the Jon Snow of yesterday, no matter how many years between the two.”

Jon nodded, aware, but Robb understood that anyone who truly knew Jon would notice the differences right away. This new, older Jon was blunt and battle-hardened, as well as being even more stoic and serious than normal, which was quite a feat. He was no green boy anymore, that was for sure. He was a man, a leader, the heir to the Iron Throne.

The solar was blanketed by stagnant silence, everyone adjusting their minds to the changes in their lives. His father finally spoke.

“You and Robb have lessons with Ser Rodrik right around now. You may have been an accomplished sword fighter in your time, Jon, but now you are no better than Theon or Robb. Your only advantage would be your knowledge, which does very little in actions. Practice wisely.”

With those words, Robb’s father stood up and walked out of the room, brisk, with his mother following behind as if pulled by an invisible string. 

Logically, Robb knew that he wasn’t alone in the solar. His brother (he decided that despite Jon being his cousin, he was still his brother in everything but blood) sat beside him, charcoal eyes tracking the sporadic movements of the fire.

But oddly enough, even in Jon’s company, a sense of loneliness settled upon Robb like a dark storm cloud. Did he even know his brother anymore?

And what about Jon’s feelings about him? Jon hasn’t seen Robb in what-- ten years? (Even if Robb had seen him yesterday). If Robb hadn’t seen anyone in ten years he was sure that their relationship would change. 

Robb eyed Jon’s solemn face and dark eyes. The way Jon sat was different. He sat straighter, but at the same time he was hunched. Proud but exhausted, Robb determined, that’s why he sat the way he did. Robb finally cleared his throat.

“Lessons, then?”

Jon looked up, meeting Robb’s eyes, and he was shocked to see a small flicker of excitement in them, “Yes, lessons. Hopefully my skills will progress quickly so I can knock you to the dirt every time.”

Robb gaped, “Well let’s see, dear brother, who will be knocking the other into the dirt.”

The fact that Jon’s mouth loosened slightly when Robb called him ‘brother’ was not lost to the redhead. The spell of stillness then shattered as they both pushed out their chairs and made their way to the door.

“I have to say that I’m quite surprised, Snow. I don’t remember you being this confident yesterday.”

“Just over a decade of fighting will do that to a man, Stark. Plus, as you may recall,” his voice dropped to a whisper, “I do have royal blood.”

Even though Jon chuckled, Robb stayed silent, still slightly uncomfortable with the new information.

Jon eyed him, “To be honest with you, Robb, I’m not sure how I feel about that. Even though there’s no speculation left about my parentage, I still feel unsure, I suppose. My father was a prince,” his voice was heavy with disbelief, “my grandparents were king and queen.” 

He looked toward Robb, “See? Doesn’t that sound like a lie?”

It did, it really did. The words sounded cursed, forbidden, blasphemous, almost.  _ In another life, _ Robb realized, _ Jon would’ve ruled the Iron Kingdoms _ . And with another fleeting thought,  _ that could happen in this life, if the gods will it. _ The realization shook him, but he just nodded in response.

“I reckon I have more wolf blood than dragon blood,” Jon continued, “I’m strong in the magic of the First Men, and much weaker in that of Valyria, as well.”

Robb raised his eyebrows, “Magic?”

“Yes, Magic. You have a little as well, I think. Warging.”

Robb couldn’t help but guffaw, “Warging?”

“Yes, with your direwolf, Grey Wind,” the amusement was clear in Jon’s voice, but Robb was anything but amused.

“My  _ direwolf? _ You can’t be serious!”

“Really, Robb?” They stopped at the training yard to finish their conversation, and Jon tilted his head back, soaking in the warm rays of the sun like a man who had never known summer, “When am I known to jest?”

_ But I don’t know you anymore, _ he wanted to say,  _ how am I supposed to know? _ Even with these thoughts, Robb spared a second to envision Jon as a court jester and nearly burst out laughing.  _ I guess somethings don’t change about a person _ , he thought. Jon was just as solemn as always.

“Boys!” Ser Rodrik called out, “There you are! Have any idea where Theon is?

“Probably down in Wintertown, still” Robb replied, “He got shitfaced drunk last night.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Jon wincing at the Ironborn’s name. He’ll have to ask him about what happened with Theon later. Or wait to hear it in his tale.

The northern knight sighed disappointedly, “Well then I suppose we could start without him,” and then more quietly, barely above a whisper. “It’s his fault he would rather disgrace himself than learn how to defend himself.”

Jon and Robb looked at each other, small smiled etched upon their faces. Theon will be Theon and Ser Rodrik will be Ser Rodrik.

“Anyway, grab those blunted tourney swords. You’ll be sparing while I take notes on your technique and faults.”

“Theon’s not here, Stark, so I guess I have to take my anger out on you. Ready to eat dirt?”

Yes, he would have to ask Jon about Theon.

“You wish, Snow,” he answered.

Ser Rodrik looked on amusedly, no doubt being reminded of his youth, “Go on, pick out your sword of choice."

Robb immediately dove for the shiniest, with the premise that it was the newest. And while testing out in his hand, he decided that it, in fact, wasn’t a bad pick after all. It felt balanced and natural.

Jon, on the other hand, took his sweet old time picking out his sword. He must’ve tried ten, picking each up, feeling the weight of it in his hands, and putting it away, dissatisfied. Finally, he begrudgingly picked up an older looking one.

Jon muttered something under his breath about it not being something called Longclaw, but that it was good enough. Robb wondered absentmindedly if this Longclaw was Jon’s tried-and-true sword in the future, that no blunted tourney sword here could compete with. It probably was.

“Ready Boys?” Ser Rodrik questioned, “Three, two, one, begin!”

Robb and Jon observed each other for a few moments, circling around. Jon look was predatory and wolfish, he noticed. Primal. His eyes seemed to scan Robb’s stance, and Robb barely had a chance to think that Jon had the strategic advantage in this battle before his brother attacked, swinging his right hand wide and above his head. Robb hastily put his sword up to block the blow, surprised at both Jon’s confidence in the offensive, as well as his strength. 

Robb lunged, swinging his sword at a head angle to Jon’s gut, be he swiftly sidestepped and continued his observant gaze. Then Jon thrusted forward landing blow after blow upon Robb’s sword. He was quick and sharp, and Robb was barely able to parry them all.

Jon’s style was most definitely not what Ser Rodrik taught them as children. It was more fluid, but also more sharp. More unorthodox, more primitive. He tried to spare a thought to about where Jon had learned this, but he had no time, too preoccupied with the deluge of attacks he was fending off.

Jon’s style was better suited to kill, Robb realized with a start. He wasn’t used to fighting with the intent to disarm, but rather to fatally wound. This admittingly shook him, and the heir found his arms moving slower, with less vigor. The fact that his brother had to fight in order to survive made these run of the mill blunted-sword practices seem a lot less fun.

Jon must’ve noticed his distraction, dodging to the right, and arching long at Robb’s sword. He was barely able to fend him off. Jon stepped back to take a few breaths, which was a more than welcome break for Robb.

Sweat dampened his hair and dripped down the back of his neck. His breaths were quick and heavy. He forced his eyes to study Jon. There was a hint of frustration in his face, Robb noticed. He remembered what his father said to Jon before he left: 

_ “Your only advantage would be your knowledge, which does very little in actions.” _

Jon couldn’t even rely on muscle memory, because his muscles have no yet memorized these actions. And the memory of muscle memory probably didn’t do much for his performance, after all. 

Robb went in for a blow but was weakly parried by Jon. He went in for another blow.

_ If I could just tire him enough… _

Jon did some complicated twisting gesture with his sword, and Robb’s sword clattered to the dirt. Robb looked up in astonishment.  _ What was that? _

The two opponents looked at each other for a few moments. Jon winked as if to say,  _ I was just toying with you all along, _ but in fact Robb knew the wink should be interpreted more along the lines of,  _ I only learned how to do that in the future. I’ll teach you if you’d like? _

Robb winked back.

“Jon, lad!” Ser Rodrik called out, “I never taught you that! Have you been practicing, or has this just happened overnight?”

_ Overnight, _ Robb answered in his head,  _ but also over the span of fifteen years. _

“Uh, yes Ser,” Jon replied, “I’ve been practicing.”

“Ah, well Robb, looks like you’re going to have to admit defeat,” said the knight.

Robb let out an incredulous chuckle, “I admit defeat, Ser.”

A small voice snapped them out of their conversation.

“Wow, Jon! You have to teach me!”

Little Arya came racing into the yard, her dress dragging in the mud. 

Jon smiled, “Maybe one day, when you could pick up a sword without toppling over.”

“I can do that now!” she answered, a little offended by the looks of it.

“Perhaps,” Robb joined in, “but are you sure you have enough strength in those arms to swing it?” He nearly burst out laughing at Arya’s responding pout.

“I’ll be a great swordswoman one day! I’ll be able to beat  _ all _ my brothers. Like Aunt Lyanna!”

Robb searched Jon’s face for sadness at the mention of his secret mother, but none appeared.

“You will be a great swordswoman, someday,” Jon said with certainty, “but now you have to learn how to be a great sewer. I think you’re ditching your lessons.”

“Yes, little one,” said Ser Rodrik authoritatively. “Go to your lessons.”

Arya pouted and ran away mumbling about Sansa and Jeyne Poole and embroidery. Robb wondered what that was about.

“Arya!” Jon called out to her retreating figure, “Needles are really just miniature swords, aren’t they?”

Arya looked back and laughed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know, it's been over a month. It was the end of summer and all I really wanted to do was lay around all day. But now that school has started, I'm curiously falling back into the swing of things. Thanks for sticking with me!
> 
> Kudos and comments are more than appreciated. Have an amazing day! X


	4. Catelyn I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon tells his story, and a decision is made.

She twisted the fabric of her dress nervously, her head ducked low so her face would be concealed by a curtain of auburn hair. The tension and worry which thickened the air of her husband’s solar were palpable. They were going to hear Jon Snow’s story today.

_ Jon Snow, _she thought with a grimace. He couldn’t really be considered a Snow now, though, could he? _ Jon Targaryen,_ she thought instead, and she could almost taste the words in her head. _ Bitter, raw, spicy, _ they were, and above all: _ wrong. _ Her husband’s bastard was royalty. She treated a prince (or was he a king?) no better than the filth beneath her shoe. Jon was older now, more mature, even if not in body. Maybe he would decide to take revenge. Throw her in a cell, starve her and beat her. Or even behead her, burn her. Catelyn could almost feel the phantom flames licking her body and charring her flesh black. She shuddered.

Mad King Aerys was supposedly obsessed with fire. He was said to burn people alive for entertainment. There were also whispers about Queen Rhaella- about the revolting puckered scars of melted skin littering her body. Although logically she knew Jon Snow (_Stark? Targaryen?) _would not go so far to murder her, even if spurred by vengeance, his family held a terrible history of insanity. What if, in the future, he turned dark and rageful? What if his dragon blood was inescapable, even if half-wolf? She couldn’t bear to think of it.

And this story, about the future he lived through- would it be reliable? Would the boy disclude things that put him in a negative light? And what about her children, her babies? Did Jon know what happened to Robb, Sansa, Arya, Bran, and Rickon? Did he know what they went through? Could he be trusted enough to tell what they went through?

Although Catelyn still had feelings of distrust towards the boy, her instincts screamed, “_ Yes! You can trust him with this!” _ The boy had seemed so grievous, so urgent the day before in this very solar. _ Whatever’s coming is going to impact every single one of us,_ she realized. Oh, what did her children go through!

Jon and Robb stepped into the solar, closing the door firmly behind them. Robb pulled out a chair and sat, but Jon stood at the doorway fiddling with the hem of his shirt. The boy’s usually melancholy features were drawn with anxiety. 

“Sit down, Jon,” Ned instructed, “I think we’ll be here for a while.”

Although her husband didn’t show it, Catelyn knew he was just as worried as she was about what Jon was going to tell them. He tossed and turned the entirety of the night before, haunted by demons yet to drag themselves out from beneath the bed.

Jon sat down. Jon sat down and he told them _ everything. _ He told them about the death of Jon Arryn, about Cersei and Jaime Lannister’s incestuous affair. He told them about Ned’s execution (Oh gods!) and the War of the Five Kings. He spoke of Sansa’s imprisonment in the lion’s den, and Arya’s trek across the continent. He spoke of Ramsay Bolton, and Theon’s betrayal. He talked of Bran and Rickon and the greenseer, The Three Eyed Raven. He told of what was dubbed the Red Wedding, and Catelyn wanted to be sick.

And then he talked of what was happening on and beyond the wall- The Others, wildlings (or free folk, as she learned they preferred to be called), and Mance Ryder. The Mutiny at Castle Black, The Night King, and the Battle of the Bastards. The retaking of Winterfell and the King in the North. 

Then he spoke of the Mad King’s daughter, Daenerys Targaryen, and her dragons. He spoke of how the dragons were crucial in the battle for the dawn- well, until they were turned themselves.

His tale got darker, more chilling. He talked of mass slaughter, of electric blue eyes. Of the Night King’s Army numbering in the hundreds of thousands. He talked of famine and hypothermia, sickness and death! So much death! 

And then he got to the end- the magic, the rituals, the fruitless battle. And all Catelyn could think was _How_? How could her babies go through that? How could the Others, White Walkers, Night King, Children of the Forest, Greenseers, and Wargs be real? How could dragons be real, for that matter? And what was the nonsense about the savage sun god R'hllor, and his followers Thoros of Myr and Melisandre? Azor Ahai and Beric Dondarion? How did the<strike> bastard</strike> Jon outlive all of her children besides Bran? And by the way Jon made it sound, Bran wasn’t exactly her baby boy by the time he traveled back, but more of an imposter wearing his face like a sick sort of mask. Jon also shared his suspicions about the greenseer. Either indifferent, he said, or evil.

The Raven could’ve been using Bran’s empty body as a meatsuit, her actual child either dead or trapped inside his mind. The Raven was power-hungry, supposedly, and only worked for his own benefit. 

“Bran was far from the boy who climbed the towers and dreamed of knighthood,” Jon had said, “He was blank, emotionless. Not even a man, really. All he seemed to care for was killing the Night King. Funny, really, because the Night King seemed to want to kill him too. Self-Interest, I tell you. All he had on his mind was his survival and his alone.”

_No, not funny,_ Catelyn had thought despite knowing that Jon meant it in a more ironic fashion. _Not funny at all._

She spared a glance around the solar and almost immediately regretted it. Robb sat staring at his hands in a haze. A singular tear rolled almost lazily down his cheek and his foot tapped anxiously against the stone floor. 

_ Tap tap tap tap. _

And Ned, oh her Ned! He seemed vacant, his body trembling like a flame when attacked by wind. His head was lowered into his hands and his body wracked with great shuddering sobs. Soon enough her vision started to blur and a loud embarrassing hiccup forced its way up from her diaphragm. The tears started as Jon Snow looked on.

He looked uncomfortable, surrounded by his weeping family_ (and yes, they were family, he was rightfully her nephew after all. Family, Duty, Honor) _ . How trivial this must seem to him? How pathetic, how weak? He had to live through, no, _survive this_, and they were just hearing an account of it. An account of something that technically never happened, never in this universe at least. Catelyn forced herself to stop thinking about it and to just focus on getting her act together. She was confusing herself. Then Jon Snow started to speak. It was dark, and gravelly, and mature, and sounded way too old and weary to be coming out of a boy of ten and three’s mouth.

“After we get the mess sorted out with the Arryns, Baratheons, and Lannisters, I suppose I’d head north immediately. The wall is seriously outmanned and ill-supplied, as you’ve heard. I’ll want to get the brothers prepared there, then head even further north to help the free folk. Or do whatever they’d let me, for that matter, I’m still a pathetic southern kneeler in their eyes.”

“Southern?” Ned said brokenly, his voice cracking. Poor man, that was probably the last straw.

He resigned to it when Jon just looked at him and continued, sounding way too tired for nine in the morning, “Jon, I don’t- I won’t-” he sighed and shook his head, “I'm not going to fight you on this now considering its years in the future, but… but I really hope you decide to stay in Winterfell.”

She turned her gaze to Jon, who wore a hard look on his face. Understandable, for he was just Bastard of Winterfell, the black sheep of the Stark family until Ned died in his previous timeline. Ned was probably relieved in the other universe, even a little, to see him take the black, swear celibacy, and to waste away in the frigid tundra. Less chance of being found out as the secret King, she supposed.

And she was probably part of that decision, too. That Jon Snow went to the wall because that was the only place he felt like his status wouldn’t hold him back. It didn’t, at least not too much- he was Lord Commander, after all. At Winterfell, though, how disdainful was she to him? How neglectful was she, even just a few days ago? Part of his decision to leave was probably to get away from her. <strike>(Family, Duty, Honor)</strike>. And Ned probably let him go so easily because he knew how she had always held so much _hate_ for the motherless child. The thought left a bitter taste in her mouth.

“Can’t we just isolate ourselves? Segregate the north from the rest of Westeros and leave Iron Throne, and other southern conflicts for that matter, to the south? It would be a little tough come winter, but I’ve heard of foreign crops, ones that could be grown in cold weather: barely, rye, turnip, and sugar beet to name a few. All we have to worry about is the Long Night, then. And we could go north together.”

Catelyn had almost forgotten that her eldest son was in the room. And she did have to admit- he made a compelling point. A part of her heart longed for Riverrun, though, for Lysa and Edmure. She also wanted to feel warm, maybe even uncomfortably so, before darkness and chill descended upon them all. 

Granted, she had acclimated to the North shockingly well- Winterfell was just as much her home as Riverrun. When she had first met Eddard “Call me Ned” Stark, he was straight off a battlefield, standing loyally by the behemoth usurper Robert Baratheon. He was caked in dirt and mud and blood, and his hair was tangled and matted. And when she spoke to him she was in disbelief. _ This couldn’t have been her betrothed! _ He was grim and spoke very few words. He was quiet, and broody, and overall not the man she had dreamed of as a wee girl. _ He ended up surpassing all of it. _

She guessed she didn’t realize, as a girl playing pretend, that big, heroic, brawny, braggart types made good fantasies, but not so good husbands. They were too loud, too competitive, too narcissistic. Her Ned, though, he was kind. He was a good and caring husband _and father_, which was more than she could’ve ever gotten with a man like Robert Baratheon. She supposed that his gentleness, hospitality, and respect helped her settle better in the North. Plus her children were half northern, half wolfish. Even though they were all born in the summer, they had never known anything but the North. They would do perfectly fine without the rest of Westeros holding them back.

She snapped out of her reverie when Jon began to speak, “That...that could work,” he seemed to be considering the idea, which had evidently not crossed his mind before, “We could get the dragonglass from Skagos instead of Dragonstone. And once the South figures out their problems, we could recruit them for help in the Long Night. We’re going to need Daenerys and her dragons eventually, after all.” As he spoke, he gained confidence in the idea, his voice turning louder with each word, “Robb, you’re brilliant!”

There were flaws, Catelyn thought, many flaws. But those could be worked out with time. And they had time, they had years. Ned voiced her thoughts, but admittingly focused a lot more on the flaws.

“Cutting ourselves off from the King- Robb, it’ll take more than just a declaration! Robert would never just _ let _ me go like that.”

“Robert doesn’t need to _let you_,” Jon’s interjection was sharp, “Just do it. He’s not your childhood playmate anymore, father. You can destroy a friendship that’s already ripping at the seams, or make things exponentially harder for yourself. And he won’t ask you to be Hand if this happens.”

Ned’s soldiers sagged, “But the alliances- Jon- they’d be ruined!”

“Not necessarily,” Catelyn decided to add her two bits, “If they are truly loyal to you they’ll continue an alliance even after the secession. The North and Dorne are practically independent, anyway. They might even side and trade with us.”

She wanted to immediately bite her words when she remembered the fate of Elia Martell and her children, and how since the blame fell to Robert, it in turn also fell to Ned. Maybe after hearing the full story, though, they would change their minds

“And new trade deals!” As Robb spoke Catelyn realized with a bit of amusement that they were all teaming up against her husband, “Jon mentioned the wildlings, the Braavosi, the Dothraki. We could form alliances with them. We’d be even more powerful than Westeros!”

_ But that wasn’t the goal, now was it? _It seemed as if her son, after getting the image of him as King in the North in his head, had become a little over-zealous and ambitious in regards to power. One look at Jon Snow’s face told her that survival, and only that, was the ultimate goal for him. Survival of the human race, to be exact, even at the cost of his own life.

“Being more powerful that Westeros…” Jon started, “It could happen, actually, but it won’t be what we’re striving for. I will do anything. I will do anything to prevent the Long Night. The suffering...the cold...the famine...avoiding that is our number one priority.”

It was as if the wind answered Jon’s call. It burst through the window and pervaded frostiness throughout the room, chilling its occupants to the bones. It was an omen, a sign, a herald of the winter to come. Ned sighed.

“Starting tomorrow I’ll start drafting letters to the rest of the Northern Lords and the Wall. If we’re to do this we’re going to need everyone backing us up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A new chapter squeezed out! If you caught any errors, have any suggestions, or just want to add feedback, please comment below- it gives me the drive to continue.  
Thank you so so so much for reading, it means the world to me. Please add a kudos if you enjoy it. Have a Fantastic day!


	5. Eddard I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A plan is created.

**Eddard I**

* * *

_ Lords Magnar, Stane, and Crowl, of the island of Skagos, _

_ I, your Liege Lord Eddard Stark, son of Rickard Stark, hereby ask for your humble alliance in trade, and, if circumstances so call for it, in battle. My first inquiry is about the surplus of the unique black stone called dragonglass on your island. If my sources and predictions prove true, the entirety of the Northern Nation will need a supply of the rock. Being substantially further south than you, I’m sure we can offer a variety of supplies in return.  _

_ I know that in the past Skagos has been mostly independent from both the North and from the rest of Westeros, so I ask most pleadingly that you at least consider my offer. And, in terms of independence, I am toying with the idea of secession from Westeros, so we, as a nation, could embrace our own culture and religion without southern ideals holding us back. As of now, and for the foreseeable future, this will not come to fruition, but for preparation’s sake, please express your inputs on the matter in the returning raven. There are an assortment of crops that can be grown this far north, and seeds will be supplied to us by the Braavosi, who grow them, so we will not lapse into famine. His grace Robert Baratheon, first of his name, is sure to be hesitant in such political maneuver, especially considering we were both fostered together in childhood. If the North does actually end up seceding, and if the secession leads to war, I ask of you an alliance. _

_ My brother, Benjen Stark, is a ranger upon the Wall at Castle Black. We engage in correspondence, and in a recent letter he confessed some troubling news to me. I am aware of Skagos’s geography, and how nearly half of the island lies beyond the Wall, parallel to Eastwatch-by-the-sea. Have you also heard the following rumors? He says that the Others are real, along with wights, The Night King, and the Children of the Forest. This connects back to my request of dragonglass, for my sources say that dragonglass can be used against these creatures. That and Valyrian Steel, which, as you well know, is in very short supply. My brother also says that wildling tribes, who have held animosity towards each other for generations, and banning together under the rule of the self-declared King beyond the wall, Mance Rayder. There is mass-movement of the peoples, and have been several sieges at the Wall as per his accounts. Now why would these wild and nomadic peoples try to break their way in to Westeros, a land in which they hold nothing but bitterness towards. Why else would they team together to do this unless there was a threat bigger than themselves?  _

_ Summer has been upon us for a blessedly long time, and it is only an omen for the harshness what may be upon us. My house words ring true, Winter is Coming, and I do hope that you assist in the efforts to tame it as much as possible. Consider my requests, Lords Magnar, Stane, and Crowl, and please reply in haste- preparations should start as soon as possible. _

_ Cordially, _

_ Your liege lord Eddard Stark, on behalf of Northern survival _

* * *

Ned looked up from his desk, rubbing his tired eyes and shaking out his cramping fingers.

_ What time was it? _

He had drafting letters nonstop since the meeting with Jon, Robb, and Catelyn had been adjourned. His hands were stained with dark smudges of ink and angry red calluses were beginning to form on his palm and fingers. 

For now, he was focusing on drafting letters to all of the houses under his command, and by god, he never realized how many houses there actually were! Practically any family who owned land was considered a house, and the North was quite vast. He supposed that his older brother had to memorize all of them, once upon a time, under his father’s watchful command. But he, as the second son, never received those sort of lessons. They would have been more than useful, both in his youth and in his present. 

But after over a decade of being the Lord of Winterfell, Ned presumed that he hadn’t done too bad. At least not yet, that is. He had always kept good relations with the more prominent houses, making sure to listen to their requests and needs, a fact that was sure to come in handy. Since he has always been reliable, he hoped the lords of the North would return the favor.

He grabbed another piece of parchment and looked at the list of houses he had left. Some houses he could combine into one letter, like the Skagosi Lords, but he still had dozens of letters yet to write, nonetheless.

_ Dear Lord Glenmore of Rillwater Crossing, _

He started to write, sighing at the monotony. Maybe he should take a break- pray in the Godswood, maybe, or talk to his family. He didn’t have the chance to mull this over, though, because the door of his solar abruptly opened.

“Catelyn,” Ned addressed with a relieved sigh.

“Ned,” his wife replied.

They just stood there for a moment, basking in each other’s company. The past couple of days had been absurdly bizarre and it was nice to just stay with someone familiar, unchanging, and unrelenting in his life. He smiled softly.

“As much as I like your company, Ned, I did come for a reason,” she said softly.

Ned nodded, placing his letter and ink aside, prompting her to continue.

“Jon wants everyone to meet in the council room. He says we need a detailed and thorough plan if we are actually to change to the future. And to secede, for that matter. This isn’t something to fly into blind.”

Ned agreed wholeheartedly. Just a few days ago, he had thought that no decision of his could possibly eclipse his choice to claim Jon as his bastard son after Lyanna’s passing at the Tower of Joy, but it seemed like he had been wrong. These decisions he and his family were making were to affect the entirety of Westeros, and even the lands beyond it. These decisions could determine the ultimate prevalence of light over dark. Or, contrarily, the prevalence of dark over light. He shuddered at the thought.

“How are you?” he questioned, forcing his thoughts away from the weight resting on his shoulders. On everybody’s shoulders.

“I’m...dealing,” Catelyn said tentatively, “It’s a lot to process.”

Ned hummed in agreement. He had noticed that she had been calling Jon by his name now, rather than “the boy”, “the bastard,” or even “it.” This was a welcome change. 

“And...about Jon,” he began, “I tried to do what was best, I swear. Many times I had debated telling you, but in the end your discontent with him sold the story, Cat. If you suddenly started treating him as a trueborn son, everyone would be suspicious. Cat… I hope you understand.”

His wife sighed, pulled up a chair, and sat down. “I do understand, Ned, I understand but we could’ve figured something out. I just wish you just  _ told _ me.”

Ned exhaled, “I do too.”

Catelyn leaned over and rested her head on his shoulder. They sat there for a few moments, watching the flames of the fire dance in the wind, listening to the  _ hiss crackle pop _ . It was nice. Quiet. Peaceful. Such a shame that those things could only be found in little treasure trove moments of serenity. Moments that were going to become increasingly more scarce as the moons changed.

“I suppose we should meet Jon now,” Ned spoke quietly, “Shouldn’t keep him waiting for long.”

Catelyn hummed, “We should, shouldn’t we?”

They didn’t move for a minute yet, hypnotized by the warmth of the hearth.

* * *

“First order of action,” Jon began, “is to strengthen our bonds with other Northern houses, and to create bonds, however fragile at first, with the free folk.”

He turned his gaze at the occupants of the room, and while staring into those charcoal eyes, so similar to Lyanna’s, to his own, he felt an inexplicable chill. Was it just him, or were those eyes deeper, darker, hardened?

“As the years progress, we, of course, need to start preventing the death of Jon Arryn, diminishing the Lannister’s hold upon the bank and crown, and trying to prevent a five-way war. All that from the shadow-, we will hopefully be distanced if not independent by then. And from there hopefully Daenerys Targaryen will be making her way back to Westeros to claim the Iron Throne.”

Everybody nodded in agreement. It made sense- not getting directly and officially involved in southern affairs, but waiting and covertly pulling strategic strings all while up north and far away from the drama. And to eventually separate from Westeros, the North would have to be a unified and strong force- the entirety of the North, including those beyond the Wall.

Ned’s maternal grandmother had been a wildling; a Flint, to be exact. Although he had very few memories of the woman, he remembered her headstrongness, her great bellying laugh, and her gravelly voice she used (frail but loud) when she sternly reprimanded her husband, or even Ned’s parents, despite them being grown and capable. He named Arya after her, and he supposed the wildling spirit of his grandmother lived on in the girl, all rowdy, and rough.

Bitterness and enmity had existed between those separated by the Wall for centuries. As his unpolished grandmother ran circles in his mind, he determined that, despite many differences, a common ground could always be found if one looked hard enough. Ned shivered as he envisioned the North, full in its icy indifference, together and standing strong against the South. 

_ Just if my father had abandoned his southern ambitions and turned his thoughts to what really mattered.. _

Ned shook his head and turned his focus back to the meeting. It was no use dwelling on past hypotheticals.

“...I want to go beyond the Wall,” Jon was saying, “Not only do I know their ideologies, languages, and geography, but I also want to find the raven, see if he knows the specifics of the spell that brought me back. For all I know there could be limits for how much we can change. And maybe threaten him while I’m at it. We don’t want him ever getting south of the Wall.”

“We can arrange that,” Ned replied, “Your disappearance for a while will be easier to explain than the rest of ours. You can go with Benjen, too, he can he-”

“Actually,” Jon interrupted, “I’m planning on going by my lonesome. I don’t want this mission to be affiliated with the Watch in any way at all. They’ll restrict all I can and plan to do. The Watch is on very bad terms with the Free Folk, just seeing the black of a brother would prompt them to attack.”

Ned shook his head, “Jon...you can’t just go alone! No matter how well you know the land, unforeseen danger can come out of nowhere. What if you're caught in a blizzard? If you run out of food? If your ambushed by wildlings or the Others? What happens then, Jon?”

“That won’t happen,” Jon said with uncharacteristic certainty.

“How can you be so sure of that?” Robb butt in, “We’re relying on you, if you die how are we supposed to go on with this plan?!”

“You just go along with it,” Jon replied, voicing it in a tone that implied it was as simple of a solution as eating when you’re hungry. But his voice wavered the slightest bit, revealing a flicker of self-doubt.

“And about going alone, once I cross the wall I’ll form relations with a few clans. I had friends from beyond the Wall, once upon a time, and I’m sure I can form a friendship with them again. I won’t be braving everything by myself! And I  _ won’t _ die. The Gods allowed me to be brought back for a reason- it’s fate for me to live. Magic like the Raven did that day, its powerful, otherworldly. It can’t just  _ happen _ without the Gods’ intervention. Whoever helped send me back that day will make sure I carry out what I’m here to do.”

The room’s atmosphere was tense, and although everyone was itching to say something, nobody did, ignorant and hesitant with the subject of magic. Jon continued.

“Speaking of plans, we actually need to finish ours, so if, Gods forbid, something actually happens to me up north, you can carry on with the plan until I return. Or, well, by the off chance I don’t come back, humanity can still be saved.”

It seemed as if Jon had started to fancy himself immortal, a favorite of the Gods. Ned knew the dangers of that (usually) ungrounded arrogance. Wasn’t this the man who fought battle after battle? Who nearly starved to death? This time travel business changed his son’s view of himself to something larger- something unbound by the chains of death.

On the other hand, though, Ned wasn’t sure just how ungrounded Jon’s confidence was. He was brought back to life by the northern sun god, R'hllor, after all. And Jon’s father, Rhaegar, was obsessed with prophecy. He vaguely remembered something about an Azor Ahai- the Prince That Was Promised, and a song of ice and fire. Could the silver prince’s prophecies been rooted in reality? Was Jon this fabled savior?

And Jon, so distrusting of the Raven, freely accepted that the greenseer helped him, and that the Gods supported both he and the Raven. Ned became increasingly unsure that Jon had thought everything through in its entirety yet. Even if the Gods were hellbent on having him succeed, who said he wouldn’t die in the process? He never had a conversation with the beings, they never told him what exactly he was to do and how it was going to happen. For all he knows, Jon could die. Then die again, and again, and again, and again. He could exist in an endless cycle of death and resurrection. Or maybe the spell would be reset. He would be sent back to the beginning, the Stark family blissfully unaware of the future. There were so many possibilities, good and bad, that Jon just hadn’t thought of- or hadn’t thought to share. He’d have to talk to Jon about this later.

For now, Ned tried to clear his head of these thoughts. In the long run, Jon’s destiny didn’t even matter because whatever he was fated to do will happen in due time, and his shortsightedness would be handled in a well-meaning discussion later that night, or in the morn. 

“We should stockpile food as well as introduce new crops,” his wife suggested, “And try to form good relations with the Reach, They loved Targaryen rule, and if all else fails we can reveal Jon’s parentage. They’ll be undoubtedly loyal if that happens.”

“I’d probably have to marry Margaery Tyrell, then,” Jon stated thoughtfully.

“Don’t tell me you’ll have a problem with that!” Robb laughed, “It’s a win-win situation!”  
“Robb!” Both he and his wife scolded the heir of Winterfell simultaneously.

“This proposed alliance is for food, Robb! Survival! Not... not for whatever you’re implying!” Catelyn continued.

Robbs laughter died down, sombered by the stakes of the conversation, “Just saying,” he mumbled.

“And that’s only is worse comes to worst,” Jon added, giving his brother a pointed look, “Marriage would only tie me down, something we could hardly afford.”

The room quieted, everyone collecting their thoughts. Ned absentmindedly reached over the planning board and moved Jon’s figurine to beyond the wall.

“When are you planning on leaving?” he inquired.

Jon tilted his head and furrowed his eyebrows, “I’m not sure. I want to go as soon as possible, but I am technically still a child. No one would take me seriously.”

_ That’s why you need Benjen, _ Ned thought, but he refrained from voicing it aloud.

“We could make your shoes taller,” Robb suggested, only half-joking, “And have you layer like crazy so you look bulkier.”

“Can you grow a beard yet?” Catelyn asked, “Even if only a patchy stubble it would make you look a little older.”

Jon laughed, “I frankly don’t remember my beard growing skills when I was ten and three, but you two are right- there are ways to make me look older and more experienced.”

He glanced around the room, “I guess I’ll head out in a few moons, then. Get the ball rolling here first.” Sounds of agreement echoed across the room.

“What should we do while you’re away?” Ned finally asked. It felt weird, him asking Jon for instructions, but it didn’t feel wrong, per say. The secret royal was certainly a natural born leader- when he talked, people listened. Rhaegar was said to be the same way.

“Rally the North,” Jon replied, “Start to sever their identity from Westeros, their reliance on the South. See who's on our side truly,” he shifted his gaze to look at Ned, “I would leave the Boltons out of this, though. It’s up to you whether to involve the Umbers or not.”

He nodded. Ned would include the Umbers. Greatjon was one of his most loyal and trusted bannerman. Shame about his son. 

And he still wasn’t sure about the whole secession thing. It seemed as if Catelyn and his reasoning had pushed back the possibility of the event to the far future, and that the plan was just to disassociate from the crown, now. Ned had to admit, the thought of an independent North was quite appealing. They had their own culture, practiced their own religion. But no official declarations of rebellion could or should be made for a few years yet. His sons seemed to be getting the point, albeit at a slow pace.

“I have people I can contact,” Jon proceeded, “who can find out what’s happening down south, and even manipulate the events from the shadows. To an extent, of course. Ravens can be sent to and fro, detailing what’s happening. I’ll mostly leave the response to whoever's in charge’s discretion. Lady Catelyn, I was hoping that this could be you…?”

Catelyn looked surprised, “Me?”

Jon flushed and explained, “You’re the only one here who actually hails from the South. And I’m sure letter correspondences don’t differ too much from your normal day’s work.”

“Well, no,” Catelyn agreed.

“Plus, you might even be able to sway someone by the name of Petyr Baelish to dish out some information.”

“Petyr Baelish!” Catelyn gasped, “Little Petyr? What can he offer?”

Ned was certainly familiar with the name. He was said to harbor quite the affection for his wife. And despite seeming altogether harmless, Ned had heard, one should beware what he could do from the background.

“Information,” Jon answered tersely, “He’s quite good at getting his hands on information. Now I don’t say you should become friends with him, just maybe hesitant allies.. If you ask, Lady Catelyn, he’s sure to give. Do be careful with him, though, he has his hands on more strings then we ever could. ”

Ned filed this new tidbit to the back of his mind.

“Moving on,” said Jon, “We should have a safe house, of sorts. Especially with war on the horizon. Winterfell was taken in the past, and if it happens again, Gods forbid, we cannot be separated.”

“Somewhere nearby, it should be,” Robb added.

“Perhaps the Godswood?” Catelyn proposed.

“Nearby but not too close,” Ned clarified. “The Godswood could be taken along with Winterfell.”

“Maybe a place in Wintertown,” Jon said, “I don’t think they would rat us out.”  
Ned dismissed the idea, “Too risky.”

“What about that bluff?” Robb suggested, “Near the break in that river. You know, the one we used to go to as kids. There’s a cave there, too. Theon and I used to climb into it. Still do sometimes, actually. We could hide provisions in there. And we won’t need to worry about freshwater.”

“I was actually thinking of bringing Arya there soon; It seems to be a Stark child tradition. I suppose I should extend that offer to the entire family. The trees make perfect cover overhead, and the bluff itself is cover enough from the east,” Jon mentioned.

“Where is this bluff, exactly?” Ned questioned, feeling slightly left out. When had they been doing this?

“West of Winterfell,” Robb responded in good grace “It’s on the river the servants get their water from. Just follow the water upstream and you’ll get to it soon enough. And, as Jon said, the foliage offers cover.”

“I reckon that could work,” Ned mused, turning his gaze to Catelyn. She nodded in approval.

“You’ll have to take us there, soon, so we could scope out the area.”

Robb and Jon shared a quick glance and nodded at each other, no doubt planning their trip to this ridge of theirs.

“If it works for everyone else, I say this meeting has ended. We’ve just about exhausted our brains for the day,” Ned declared. He wasn’t sure how much he could intellectually contribute to the conversation anymore- it had been a long day.

“Other aspects of the plan could be brought up whenever anyone thinks of it. Sound good?” he continued.

Jon shrugged, “Sounds good to me, father.”

Ned’s heart warmed at the title.

“What time is it, anyway?”

“Too late to continue talking whilst avoiding suspicion,” Catelyn stated, “We should really get on with our late-afternoon routines.”

They all got up, conversing amongst themselves, and left the room.

Ned rubbed his eyes and started his trek back to his solar. He had more letters to write.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! If you have any praise, feedback, or suggestions, please drop a comment down below! XO


	6. Jon III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We spare a break for a little family bonding time, and an interesting surprise comes to Winterfell.

**Jon III**

Jon had to admit, if he were an outsider, he would’ve been awfully suspicious of The Warden of the North, his wife, his heir, and his bastard son converging for hours on end every day in the room usually reserved for war councils. He would’ve speculated, gossipped, and shared, which, understandably, was exactly what the castle staff was doing. It was their fault really, they should’ve been doing it after supper, maybe, or in the wee hours of the morning.

Some people theorized they were discussing the fate of Winterfell, that Jon may become its Lord rather than Robb. Others thought that they finally became privy to the knowledge of Jon’s mother, and that the Lady was so mad she was planning to send Jon as far away as possible. He’d heard that the family was pondering squireship for Jon, so that he could serve his trueborn brother when he became Lord of Winterfell. The gossip was endless, and the popularity of the subject around the castle left Jon without a doubt; they had to come up with a plausible explanation, and do they had to do it soon.

_ But first, _ he thought, _ a little attention should be paid to those left out in the meetings. _

A breeze lazily drifted through the godswood as Jon corrected Bran’s stance. Arya curiously looked on. 

“You have to keep your weight evenly distributed, Bran. Don’t lean forwards or back.”

“I am!” Bran insisted, frustrated.

“No your not,” Arya said calmly from the sidelines, but there was a smirk in her voice. He shot her a warning look, hoping that Bran hadn’t detected it, but was too late.

Bran whipped around and stomped his foot, “Why don’t you try it then, Arya? Because I’m sure you're a master archer!”

“I might as well be!” Arya retaliated, “Give it here, I want the bow.” She dove for the wooden bow in Bran’s hand, but he spun out of the way. 

“No, you’re not getting it! It’s my turn, you’ll have yours next!”

“Give. it. Here.” Arya shot her hand out, wrapping her little fingers around the grip and pulling. The wood of the bow groaned in stress.

“Ok, stop it you two,” Jon decided to intervene, “I brought you out here to learn archery, not to quarrel. Your mother and father don’t allow this- one more fight and your screwed.” They backed away.

“Speaking of that, “ Arya said with a slightly suspicious tone, “Why _ are _ you doing this if Mother and Father don’t want you to?”

“Yeah,” Bran echoed, “Why?”

_ Because the Long Night still might come despite my intervention, _ Jon thought, _ Because there will come a time where you both must fight for your lives. _

“Why not?” was what he said instead, “Bran, you’re going to learn how to fight soon enough, there’s no harm in getting ahead. And Arya,” he hesitated a little here, trying to come up with a plausible excuse, “Whether anyone likes it or not, you’ll eventually find your way to a weapon. Might as well train you instead of having you train yourself, yeah?”

The two children stared at him and he was struck with a thick sense of nostalgia. When had those eyes last been so innocent, so childlike? He remembered Bran’s The Three Eyed Raven’s empty chilling gaze and Arya’s No One’s hardened and cold eyes with a shiver.

He silently vowed to protect the siblings. Those eyes wouldn’t see the horrors they once had, not if he had a say in it. 

“Now keep your feet shoulder length apart,” he instructed, “and keep your back straight.”

He watched as Bran carefully pulled the bowstring back and narrowed his eyes upon a knot in one of the trees- their makeshift target. Arya was enraptured as well, but surely for different reasons than Jon.

Bran readied his fingers, shifted his feet, and stood up straight. Jon hummed assuringly. Bran wasn’t the best archer before his fall, but he was hoping to change that. Even if Bran had to lose his legs down the line, he could still be able to practice archery in his chair. It would be very difficult and would require a ton of modifications, admittingly, but it would certainly be an easier way to protect himself compared to the sword.

The arrow flew from the bow and smacked into the tree with a thud. The wrong tree.

“Oh come on!” Bran shouted while Arya laughed in what was most likely schadenfreude.

They had_ a lot _ of work to do, it seemed. Jon vaguely wondered if it was himself that was the problem, not Bran, because although Jon was considered one of, if not the, best swordsman in the seven kingdoms by the time of his death, his bow-and-arrow skills left something to be desired.

Before the sword and spearmen would be sent into battle against the Others, archers would fire arrows encased in white-hot flame into the enemyś midst, lighting sometimes dozens on fire at once. He had always watched in fascination, and maybe a little bit of jealousy. Archers were crucial in the battles of Long Night, and, most of the time, they got to stay out of harm's way. Jon was always in the middle of things, swinging Longclaw with unbalanced vigor amongst blood and sweat and dirt and bodies. He would much prefer his siblings be the archers atop the walls, sending down lethal fiery arrows with unmatched accuracy than fighting the enemy head on, sword to sword. 

“How ‘bout we take a little break,” Jon suggested, “I don’t think we’re going to get much further in this session.”

Arya groaned, “But Jon!”

Bran dropped the bow into the hard dirt and leaned against a tree.

“No need to whine,” he said, “I have a fun idea to do instead.”

They both perked up, looking at Jon with unhidden curiosity.

“What is it? What’s your idea?”

“Go get Sansa, Robb, father, and your lady mother and I’ll tell you.”

Arya rushed off yelling about how she’ll tell father and Robb, but Bran lingered behind, shuffling his feet.

“You want mother to come?”

Jon frowned. He supposed that if even young Bran would find it suspicious, they most definitely had to come up with some sort of cover story. Lady Catelyn’s distaste for her husband’s bastard wasn’t necessarily a secret amongst Westeros, and her not only having meetings with Jon, but doing family activities with him was sure to raise some eyebrows.

“Yes,” he answered carefully, “She is your mother, after all.”

He peered at Jon for another moment, and the man was uncomfortably reminded of the Three Eyed Raven’s all-knowing stare. Was Bran developing greensight abilities even now? They would be severely lacking, yes, but, similarly to warging, Bran could be having dreams, cluing him in on information he wouldn't be able to understand. Jon stored the thought in the back of his brain, deciding, when appropriate, teach the Stark children to harness their warging powers, and maybe help Bran with his greenseeing ones.

Bran grabbed the bow off the ground, turned, and ran towards the entrance of the forest.

“Arya! Wait up!”

* * *

The bluff was beautiful in the summer, Jon couldn’t help but notice. The sun (oh the wonderful sun) reflected off the roaring river and illuminated the vibrant greenery around them. The cliff’s limestone stood strong and dependable to the east, slanted enough to not be able to walk down it without sliding, but to still be able to easily get to the cave entrance. 

“So,” Robb started, “This is the bluff. Jon and I used to go here as kids. And Theon. We decided to bring you guys here as well.”

Even Sansa, who was a few seconds ago complaining about her new dress getting torn by a pricker bush, was in awe at the sight.

“We’ve decided that this is going to be our emergency meeting spot,” his father announced, “In case anything goes wrong, we meet here, okay?”

Echoes of confirmation were mumbled throughout the family. 

“Now who could tell me how to get here again?” Catelyn asked, feigning forgetfulness.

“Go west to the river,” Robb prompted.

“And follow it upstream!” Arya finished.

“And what does upstream mean?” Ned asked with a raised eyebrow.

The younger kids’ murmurings were indecipherable.

“It means against the flow of the water,” he supplied with a sigh.

They all nodded their heads.

“Jon, I thought this was supposed to be fun! Not a safety lecture!” Arya said, disappointment evident in her voice.

“Who said it wasn’t fun?” He smiled, “There’s a cave over there we could play in. Also, I spy a vine we could swing on. It’s surely warm enough to swim.”

Their faces lit up as the dashed to the bluff, trying to climb it determinedly, despite being hindered by their short legs and small hands.

“Well, I guess my dear wife and I should be heading back to the castle,” his father began, “Gods know I can’t keep up with those two.”

“And I should be getting back to Rickon,” Catelyn continued, “I don’t like leaving him for so long with his nursemaid.” Even with declaring this, the couple seemed to hesitate leaving. He and Robb nodded in understanding.

“We’ll handle the little rascals, don’t you worry a bit,” Robb said.

“I’ve had more than enough years of experience dealing with them. I’m practically an expert by now,” Jon admitted, “Go back to the castle and take in the peace and quiet. We’ve got everything under control here.”

Ned’s eyes flitted over to quarreling children in the mouth of the cave. He sighed, “Best be on with it, then.”

But before they could turn around and make their way back to the castle, a messenger burst his way into the clearing.

“An important letter, my lord and lady, an important one indeed. Came just now, sir, I was told to bring it to you right away. Here it is, my lord, my lady, here it is, here it is.” 

He passed the thick parchment over to Jon’s father, and his sharp intake of breath was audible. 

Jon looked over his shoulder and felt his heart skip a beat.

It was marked with the Lannister seal.

* * *

They barged through the castle doors, startling a few servants. Almost everyone immediately stilled and unabashedly quieted in hopes of hearing what the commotion was about. They paid them no mind and continued at a quick pace to his father’s solar.

“Sansa, please take the little ones to your Septa at once. If anybody stops you and asks what’s happening, you shake your head and say you don’t know. Clear?” Catelyn’s voice sounded strained and rushed.

“Yes, mother,” the ever-obedient Sansa replied, grabbing the arms of Bran and Arya and dragging them away, with only a little over-the-shoulder glance to reveal her curiosity.

Jon missed the Sansa who’d become something like a queen during the Long Night. A powerful, proud, confident woman, who’d suffered as much if not more than everyone had. She was a beacon hope in the darkness of winter. Shame she had been killed in that life, and has yet to get her head out of the clouds in this one.

His father opened the solar door, dismissing a loitering servant (who was undoubtedly going to try to eavesdrop with the excuse of cleaning that _ very _specific piece of molding for an unusually long time) with a flick of his hand. 

They all crowded around the desk, and he and Robb shared a look. It was a look of understanding on one hand and a look of agreement on another. 

His father hastily broke the red wax seal, and unfolded the letter.

“Read it aloud, father,” Robb instructed with barely concealed energy (Jon faintly wondered whether it was the nervous or excited variety).

Ned’s eyes briefly flitted over the letter’s expanse before settling at the top. He sighed wearily.

_ “Dear whichever Stark who happens to read this first,” _His father began, eyebrows creasing in confusion.

Even though the greeting had scarcely been read, Jon was nearly convinced the letter wasn’t written by Tywin. It had a certain Tyrion-Esque charm about it, also one that sometimes possessed Jaime when he wasn’t weighed down by the world around him. 

_ Why were they writing? _At this point in time, Jaime was the disgraced Kingslayer and Tyrion was known for nothing more than his impishness. What business would they have with The North?

He continued, “_ It has made itself clear that a week ago has not, in fact, happened yet, and I find that to be quite curious. In other words, I have found myself catapulted fifteen years into the past." _

Jon gave a startled shout. Was it possible? That more than just he had been sent back in time to correct the future? Now that he thought about it, the Raven hadn't specified that only he would be sent back. He cursed himself for not thinking of the possibility before. The Raven had always been known to withhold information. What made him think that time was any different?

"Jon, did you know about this?" His father's voice surprised, confrontational, and maybe even a little accusing.

"I hadn't even thought of the possibility," he admitted, "but if the Lannister brothers are back, who knows who else is? People who survived up till the end, I suppose. Our opportunities- they just widened exponentially! We could do so much more even with just Tyrion and Jaime!"

"When did you gain lion-taming skills, brother?" Robb asked amusedly, "You, the Imp, and the Kingslayer. What a group."

"Their claws are just as sharp as ever, Robb, maybe even sharper. They just see the bigger picture now, they're looking beyond their own interests."

"A Lannister not acting selfishly?" Lady Stark scoffed, "What ever happened to them to cause that drastic change?" She shook her head, mumbling.

Jon nodded towards his father in an unspoken command.

_ Read on _.

_ "If you do not know what I am talking about, stop reading now. Forget this letter, burn it if you must, dismiss it as the ramblings of a mad man. If you do, then I believe we have a lot to discuss. Please reply in haste if you know my predicament, either in experience or in stories. There are plans to be made, people to save, wars to prevent, and alliances to be formed." _

"Some of which already created and outlined by ourselves," his father added, "in our responding raven we should explain them."

"I doubt they have gone without making plans themselves, too," Jon continued, "There are many distinctive things to sort out solely among the Lannisters, and having allies within the family will undoubtedly benefit us in that regard."

Like the whole incest thing, Jon thought wryly, along with Brienne, among other matters.

"_ I won't even require you wolves to trek south, _ " his father continued to read, _ "for I don't doubt that our disappearances could be excused by any number of things if necessary. Cersei is the only problem when it comes to that, but we remain untouched and free from her claws for now, strengthened by the memories of her madness and years in fighting a frigid war. She is one woman, and we are two men. We know her secret and we could shout it for all of Westeros to hear if need be. All she has is an indifferent drunkard man-whore of a husband." _

The Lord of Winterfell visibly frowned at this, although Jon wasn't sure if it was the part about Robert or the part about Cersei that generated the reaction.

"She _ is _ the Queen, though,” said a voice to his left. He turned to look at Robb.

"She could declare treason in an instant. And we've already established that the King can't even recognize what's right in front of him,” his brother continued.

Robb was right- Cersei traditionally had more power than they did. She had executive control, and troops to call to arms. Their little ragtag group, though? They had the power of pure unadulterated will. They had the power of the past, the power of the gods, the power of the people. If situations came to the declaration of treason, it would be really up to Tywin Lannister to decide which way the odds would lean. And that was truly unpredictable. Would he side with his daughter? His sons? Jon hoped it would never come to that.

"There's always a chance..." Jon replied hesitantly, "but I trust they could escape Kings Landing if it comes down to it. And if they die, well, I suppose we could employ the help of a red priest or priestess. Reviving people is always a tricky and hard business, but if R'hllor plays a part in this, which I suspect he does, it's most definitely a possibility."

"Do you believe in this R'hllor? Really?" Lady Catelyn asked, "Didn't the Old Gods bring you back here?"

Jon sighed, "Most directly, yes, the Old Gods brought me back in time. But what the Raven did...the amount of power...I can't rule out the involvement of other gods. And I have seen the sun god’s work in action, I was brought back to life after dying by a red priestess, after all. I suppose I believe in more than one religion, then,” he concluded, “I believe in what has proven itself to be true."

He had actually never thought about it before. The Old Gods he would consider his primary religion, an "if you could only choose one," if you will. But R'hllor? The Seven? The Drowned God? He couldn't discredit their existence. He nodded at his father to continue the letter.

_ "I do understand that this letter will generate unprecedented amounts of hubbub around the North, and would like to propose an excuse: We are curious about whether we could buy ice and sell it down south for monetary value, that is all. Tywin Lannister will send his sons, Tyrion and Jaime, to broker a deal. Whether his sons will come back from this expedition? Well, that's not up to him, now is it?" _

He quietly snorted at Tyrion's words. He knew that even if one of the brothers return south, one would unquestionably stay north. Back then, he would guess that Tyrion would be the one to stay, drawn like a magnet to a world beyond the reaches of his sister and father, but now he had to guess Jaime to be the eventual one. 

Jon winced, thinking of how terrible it must be for his friend, having to be around Cersei constantly. Staying North would be a much-needed reprieve. He blinked back into attention when his father spoke.

"We certainly have enough ice to go around," he said, "We may actually profit from it. That is if the offer seriously stands."

They nodded in agreement. Jon could barely fathom selling ice to the south, haunted by the memories of ice stretching as far as the eye could see. The fact that such a substance could be desirable baffled him personally, but he could still understand its uses. If you mix the frozen substance with salt it would stay colder for much longer, not terribly inefficient for transportation.

"_We pledge allegiance to Jon, for the ultimate goal of the prevalence of light over dark. Best regards, Tyrion and Jaime of House Lannister,_" Ned finished.

_ Well, _ Jon thought, _ that was certainly a welcome surprise. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I'm off on a long weekend now, so I'll try to get another chapter published by Monday. The marking period just ended too, so I won't have quarterly exams preoccupying me for another few months.
> 
> Feel free to add suggestions in the comments, and once again, my thanks is sky-high for your continued support.


	7. Jaime I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A sneak-peek into the life of the Lannister brothers

**Jaime I**

“Fuck this.”

Jaime sighed. This was going to be a long, excruciating trip.

“How did we ever survive the Long Night? So fucking cold.” Tyrion elaborated, “I feel like my dick is gonna freeze off and it’s not even autumn yet.”

Jaime gritted his teeth in mild frustration, “Tell me what’s more important, brother, the fate of humanity or your frigid dick?”

Tyrion grumbled, “Well, since-”

He cut him off sharply, “Don’t you dare say dick. Don’t you dare.”

Tyrion groaned, “My ass hurts, too. Couldn’t we have gotten a wheelhouse?”

Jaime frowned at the horses beneath him and his brother and sighed, “I don’t ride in wheelhouses. Plus, it’s too much work.”

“Oh!” Tyrion laughed, “Maintaining your dignity, aren’t you?” His chuckles tapered down, “Brother, just think of how many things wounded your ego before we were brought back. And you say you’re too proud to ride in a wheelhouse?”

Jaime sighed. More than enough things had put him in his place before they were rocketed back into the past; his brother was right in that regard. By the time he met his end, you could’ve even called him a man of humility. But when there wasn’t, in fact, a constant threat of death, and when luxuries were free for the taking, he allowed himself to swell with a moderate amount of pride. He deserved it, especially if they were to stop the Long Night. And grown men (knights of the kingsguard, no less) riding in wheelhouses when there were perfectly fine horses were far too humiliating.

“You have to make a good impression,” Jaime argued, “We don’t know if Ned Stark is aware of our predicament. If we roll up in a wheelhouse it’ll make the impression that we’re lazy and that we haven’t had to work for anything in our lives.”

Although he wasn’t gazing at his brother, he could still sense his eye roll.

“Please, we’ve got Jon to back us up. I wouldn’t be worrying too much about this if I were you, brother. I would worry about this godsforsaken cold.”

Jaime snorted and he could see the puff of air coming out of his nostrils, “We’re not even close to Winterfell, yet. We’re nearing the Neck, I presume, it’s bound to be  _ a lot _ colder as our journey progresses. And we both know it was much colder than this during the Long Night. Has a glimpse of sun weakened you so, Tyrion?”

“Maybe it has!.” Tyrion closed his eyes and tilted his head back and a ray of light caught his face through the trees, illuminating it. He sighed and a small smile came upon his lips. His quirked an eyebrow and opened an eye to peer at Jaime, “The sun’s bloody amazing, you have to admit.”

Jaime nodded- he did have to admit it. When he had first woken up in King’s Landing he thought he had gone to the afterlife. He was  _ warm. _ There was  _ light. _ He sat transfixed that night, staring at the sunset over the keep. It was abstract, maybe, all pink and orange smudges and violet splatters, and light yellow streaks, but it was a gorgeous painting nonetheless. One that he knew would be etched in his memory for a long while yet. 

The sun had been little more than a distant memory during the War for Dawn, a faint remembrance of warmth and a vague recollection of a yellow glow. It was so dark then. So cold. The moon had hung big and low in the sky, instilling an ominous sense of foreboding throughout all of the survivors, and the clouds were heavy and dark and had almost always spewed wet lumbering snowflakes down upon the brittle, frosted, grass. He remembered his shivering endlessly in his thinning furs and torn leather boots, cursing at the night, the cold, wights. It was a hard life. A hard, tedious, and somber life. If he had just gotten a glimpse of the sun in that time, if he had just felt its pleasant rays, Jaime’s hopes would’ve been restored. He would fight with a reawakened vigor. He would do anything to see and feel the sun just for another fleeting moment.

“All of us are slaves of the sun, aren’t we?” Tyrion remarked after a moment of silence, “Even if you immerse yourself in darkness there will always be a time when you crave the light.”

He agreed and their horses walked on.

Darkness was a heavy blanket that had smothered Jaime all too many times before. Cersei had been beneath the blanket for so long she had gained control over it, to use it to smother others with little to no hindrance. She had thrown that blanket over his head and by the Seven, it was oppressive and soul-sucking and bleak and  _ heavy. _ So heavy that he couldn’t lift it off him himself. 

In his last life (for he had begun to call it so), he had pretended it wasn’t there. Or maybe he had convinced himself that it wasn’t a problem. It was though. And when you crave light but only admit it in the deepest corners of your mind it’s lonely. And then the blanket gains a few pounds. 

As the sky got darker and the air got colder, his soul seemed to absorb the little daylight they received. Only about a year after Cersei died, three since he had distanced himself from her, Jaime was able to finally lift the blanket and throw it into the wind. There was no sunlight left to absorb by then.

It was a weird limbo, a grey area. The clock seemed to tick, and tick, and tick, but nothing seemed to have phased him all too much. His soul was trapped in perpetual dusk, straddling the line between dark and light in a purplish haze.

Then he woke up. 

And there was light.

But there was Cersei.

He braced himself and steadied himself, preparing for the weight to settle over him once more. It wasn’t that big of a deal, he came to find out. He just shrugged the blanket off when Cersei tried to entangle him in it. He just popped his shoulders up and it fell away. After carrying the weight of the world the blanket felt like nothing.

Jaime rolled back his shoulders and straightened his back before swiftly kicking his horse into a moderate trot.

“Let’s make some more distance before it gets too dark to see,” Jaime suggested, “Time doesn’t stop even for the stars.”

Tyrion rolled his eyes, exaggeratingly shivered, and huffed a burst of misty breath.

“I swear to every god that may or may not exist, Jaime, if I lose all feeling in the lower half of my body, you're gonna have to pay for my liquor for at least a moon.”

“Not more than one a day, brother,” Jaime said with a small laugh, “We don’t want you either pissed or hungover in front of Lord Stark.”

Tyrion gave an exaggerated groan but didn’t refute nonetheless. But before his horse could begin a steady trot, he heard the faint sound of a twig snapping nearby. He froze, ears straining.

“What are you  _ doing? _ ” Tyrion questioned, and Jaime wanted so much for him to shut his mouth for once. “What happened to picking up the pace, brother, because it seems like you’re doing the exact opposite.”

Jaime steadily brought a singular finger to his lips in the universal sign for  _ quiet. _ Tyrion raised his eyebrows but complied nonetheless.

He slid off his horse as gracefully as he could and his boots landed in the mud with a  _ squelch _ and a small slide. Tyrion followed his lead. His eyes scanned his surroundings, eyeing the thick foliage with caution. He held his breath for a few seconds, listening intently to his environment.

_ There! _

Jaime whipped around and drew his sword, pointing in the direction they came from. He could’ve sworn he heard the crinkling of leaves. He inched forward, wishing for a moment that he had eyes on both sides of his head like animals of prey did. His eyes found something on the ground any normal person wouldn’t have noticed, but made his stomach lurch in sudden fear.

A misplaced rock laid atop the leaves, nothing around it of its sort. A diversion. To draw his focus away. He barely had time to draw a sharp breath before he heard a fearful gasp from Tyrion’s direction and cold steal touch the collar of his shirt.

_ Shit. _

He turned around slowly and his heart might as well have beaten straight out of his chest. There were about six soldiers, armed, two on horseback, Jaime noticed. One had a dagger placed firmly against Tyrion’s throat. 

“Disobey and your brother will lose his head, kingslayer,” a weathered-looking man growled  
Jaime had half a mind to grab his sword and fight them off- he was one of the best swordsmen in Westeros, after all. He restrained, though. Six against one was hardly an even fight, and Tyrion’s throat was almost sure to be slit. Plus, that sword wobbling at his Adam's apple would do nothing but harm if he tried anything.

He looked at his brother and breathed deeply. His eyes fearfully flitted to one of the older men of the group. After prying his eyes away from an ugly scar that marred nearly the entirety of the man’s face, including, by the looks of his leather eyepatch, his right eye, his eyes found what Tyrion was motioning towards with a start.

He winced and decided to raise his hands shakily into the air. They were hastily and roughly yanked behind his back and tied with a slip knot.

The man wore the blue sigil of House Frey.

“Spies, you are!” A shorter man spat out, “Why else would lions be snooping in Frey territory?”

“We’re to broker a deal with-” Tyrion tried to explain in haste, but was promptly cut off with a resounding shout of  _ Silence! _

“Say whatever you wish to the Lord when you are brought before him,” one said. “We’re to bring you to him. We’ll get a little extra money from it, surely, and protection for the rest of our lives.”

“Maybe he’ll propose a ransom!” A nasally voiced one laughed, “Or keep them to do his dirty work!”

“Shut up, Randyll,” the older one snapped, “We take them to Lord Frey, nothing that comes after is any business to someone like you.”

His eye examined Jaime and then Tyrion almost lazily.

“Yes,” He hissed, “Looks like the Lord will be in for quite a treat when he gets his hands on you two.”

Looks like they weren’t going to be able to get closer to Winterfell for a while. 

Jaime shuddered. He wasn’t even sure his father could get them out of this mess.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Thanksgiving to all those who live in America! I'm thankful for my amazing readers and their steadfast support.
> 
> Have any suggestions on where the story should go? Please comment! I love hearing your lovely ideas.
> 
> And about the Freys? Don't question it- I know exactly where this storyline is going.
> 
> Love y'all!


	8. Bran I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bran's perspective on things.

**Bran I**

Despite being young and reckless, Bran was actually quite observant, thankyouverymuch. When he was climbing, and when the skies were clear, he could see all the way past Wintertown. He could see everything from Robb and Jon training with Master Rodrik, and Theon at one of the whorehouses, to the maid kissing the stable boy, and a small lord coming back from a hunt with a stag draped across his horse.

When he wasn’t climbing, he was with people. Although a very sociable person, this was largely due to the fact that his Lady Mother hadn’t allowed him to go without supervision, yet, so he was constantly accompanied by a servant, nurse, parent, sibling, or septa. He saw things about these people. He saw how they normally acted day to day, he witnessed what they did when they were in good moods and bad moods alike. He noticed their feelings, knowledge, and hopes. So that’s why it was blatantly clear to Bran that there was something up with his bastard brother Jon. Robb and his mother and father, too, but it mostly revolved around Jon.

He spent more time training by his lonesome, despite seemingly getting better overnight. He spent more time with Arya and him, and even tried to allot more time to Sansa, who, because of either societal pressures or mutual estrangement, he had never been close to. He spent a lot of time in the Godswood. Sometimes Bran caught him there, his head tilted back to the sun and his fingers curled into the soil.

Bran wondered what made Jon change like that. What would make him need to feel the sun on his face, and the breeze through his hair, and his fingers rooted deep into the frozen ground.

Bran’s mother, father, Robb, and Jon also were spending an unusual amount of time together. Almost every night would they converge in his father’s solar and assumedly not emerge until late because Bran was usually ushered off to bed by then. Their mouths were grim lines and he could’ve sworn his parent’s faces had started to wrinkle ever so slightly. 

Was there a war on the horizon? That seemed to be a reasonable explanation. If it was, in fact, a war, he yearned so much to be old enough to fight in it. Ser Bran the Brave, he would be known as. A noble knight who could defeat even the most fearsome foes! He would save people and be hailed a hero. His statue erected in the crypts after his sure to be honorable death would show him large and muscular, with facial hair and a massive sword sheathed into a jeweled scabbard. Despite not being the heir to Winterfell, he’d make a name out of himself, yes he would!

He’d also heard through the servant grapevine that the secretive meetings could have something to do with Jon. Jon was going to take over Robb’s place, he’d heard from one person. And from another he heard that the wildlings were getting out of control and Jon, with his newfound sword abilities, was going to be sent beyond the wall. Just yesterday he had eavesdropped on two cooks discussing the Lannisters and trade deals. Bran had been told that his father was the second son, and Brandon, him namesake, was supposed to be the heir of Winterfell. Even though Jon was a bastard, maybe he’s preparing Jon to take over if anything ever went drastically wrong.

There was also the chance that Jon was going to be “legitimized.” He hadn’t known what the word meant when he first heard it, but was eventually able to find out its meaning. Jon could potentially become a Stark in name. If that was so, maybe his mother and father were readying Jon to become a minor lord of his own someday. 

No matter what the explanation was in truth, Bran knew something was up, and that something seemed to be centered around Jon. Plans started to hatch in his mind. He could spy on Jon from the towers, or from the network of servant passages beneath the castle (there were often little windows leading out to the bottom floor rooms for ventilation purposes). Maybe he should just straight up ask Jon.

Jon had always been sincere, albeit solemn. That’s what he liked about Jon - he didn’t sugarcoat anything. Everyone else treated him like he was still a baby. Jon talked to him like he talked to any other person. He smiled when Bran told him about his knighthood ambitions and didn’t shoo him away unlike Robb and Theon when he tried to tag along with the older boys. Recently, Jon had been a buzzkill with his climbing, though, which sucked.

As he readied himself to retire for the night, Bran’s mind was racing with possibilities. Tomorrow he would try to get a step closer to the truth. Definitely. 

His eyes slowly blinked closed and his mind was overcome by the dream world.

_ He was at the foot of the biggest weirwood he had ever seen. It’s branches reached up into astonishing heights, painting the scenery red. It was cold. Colder than he had ever experienced. Bran, being a summer-child, shallowly assumed that it must be winter, but his mind and heart knew that it wasn’t just any winter. It ran deeper than that. Heavy white snow blew in long diagonal sheets, coating the frozen ground in deep layer of slush. Despite the weather, he seemed unaffected by it. The snowflakes seemed to curve around his form, or even fly straight through it. Definitely a dream, then. _

_ His body slowly swiveled, trying to figure out why his mind took him here, and when he was about one hundred twenty degrees done with his circle, he saw them. _

_ Jon was there, but he looked older. He was sporting a beard, and his hair was long. Large dark furs were draped over his shoulders, and he wore armor. His eyebrows, adorned with snowflakes, made him look tentative and resigned. His lips were moving, but Bran could hear no sound. It wasn’t Jon’s appearance that shook him to the core, though, it was the person Jon’s eyes were gazing at so hesitantly. _

_ It was himself, undoubtedly. He looked older, but nothing like the man Bran envisioned himself to be when he was grown. No sword and armor was he sporting, and he was bound more or less immobile to a wooden chair. By the Seven! Is this what he becomes? His eyes were an unsettling creamy white, blank and emotionless. He looked at Jon like he was looking at a stranger, not a beloved brother. _

_ His eyes snapped to Jon, who began to move. He drew a knife from a scabbard, and cut a long slit into the palm of his hand. Bran looked away as the dark blood pooled in his hand, staining his pale skin a sickening scarlet. Why would Jon hurt himself like that? His curiosity won over his disgust and he forced his eyes back to Jon to see what he would do next. _

_ Jon took a few steps forward, and Bran had to move out of the way. He was pretty sure at this point that he was not actually there and that Jon could probably walk straight through him, but he wasn’t about to let that happen nonetheless. Jon turned his hand over above the roots of the weirwood, and the blood dripped out of his hand and onto the ashen bark of the tree. It flowed down the bark thickly, leaving a trace of bright pink on the white bark. Jon then turned his head to look at future-him. Bran’s eyes followed. _

_ His head was tilted back, his neck bent in an odd way. His eyes fluttered and the pink of his inner eyelids was briefly revealed. A chill rocketed through him, and Bran was suddenly sickened with a deep sense of foreboding rising steadily in his belly. Something unnatural was happening, he just knew it. _

_ A strong gust of wind rushed through the trees and seemed to circle around the weirwood’s clearing, forming a small cyclone, almost. The red leaves were picked up from the ground and joined the rotations in a flurry of red. He watched as his mouth moved quickly and repetitively, chanting something probably, and just when he felt the air alight with magick, the world shifted around him. _

_ He was in the crypts beneath Winterfell, flanked by the imposing statues of his grandparents, Aunt Lyanna, and Uncle Brandon. The flickering of torches made the cold stone of their almost-forgotten faces seem even more eerie than usual. A drop of water fell from a stalactite and landed wetly on the tip of his nose. _

_ Then he noticed it - a raven that was peering right at him. Its feathers were a dark, ominous black and its hooded eyes made him squirm. Its beak opened and, to his shock, it began to talk to him. _

_ “Brandon Stark,” it said, and its voice seemed to come from all around him, echoing in the dank chambers, “Just wait, and you’ll be able to fly. So little do you know.” The bird made a haunting sound which Bran assumed to be a laughter of some sort. “Your brother thinks he can change the future,” it continued, “No one has that power. No one but me. Get ready, Brandon Stark, you’re future has so much in store.” _

Bran’s eyes snapped open with the sound of the bird’s laughter rattling inside his brain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's been a while. Teachers like to cram everything before winter break, unfortunately. I hope you liked this chapter, it gives a little bit of an outsider's point of view to the events happening in this story. It's a little short, but the chapter just came to a natural end.  
Thanks for reading and have an amazing holiday season!


	9. Jon IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon visits the crypts and finds something interesting.

Jon awoke before the sun, eyes snapping open to reveal only the mild darkness of his chambers. He has always been an early riser, especially during the Long Night when not only was there no sun to wake him, but there were countless activities needed to be accomplished before night brought upon sharper and deeper kind of cold.

Despite spending a little over a month back in time, he had yet to completely break the habit. Plus, watching the sunrise was one of his favorite things to do. After being deprived of the sight for so long, he couldn’t help but marvel at the way light reflecting off the frosted grass, painting the world in a warm golden glow, and how the sky turned orange, pink, and purple as it welcomed the sun into the world for another day.

But by the looks of it, he had woken up earlier than normal, and the sun wouldn’t rise for about an hour. He sighed and swung his legs off of his bed, his feet landing on the soft bearskin rug. 

His father and Lady Catelyn had given a larger and better-furnished room, despite his protests. Jon was a man used to very little, and had no need for many possessions, but they insisted, Lady Catelyn especially. She felt bad, Jon knew, about how she had always treated and alienated him as a child, as was trying to make up for it now. 

He padded across the room, lit a lantern, and grabbed a tunic and a pair of trousers, quickly and silently changing. He couldn’t just sit in his dark room and wait for the sunrise, for dark thoughts would be sure to smother him in the silence. He laced his boots with unmatched efficiency, and strolled out of his room.

Winterfell was completely different under the cover of night (or should he say early morning). It’s ancient stone walls seemed thicker, and its halls were empty. The flickering light of his lantern casted shadows on the walls as he passed, occasionally spiking his fear when he thought he saw something out of the corner of his eye.

When he set out, he had no destination in mind, but as he walked the halls, his target became apparent.

In due time, he found himself at the ironwood door of Winterfell’s great crypts. Jon supposed it was time to visit the mother he had never known. Although he had had years to process the crazy information about his parentage, the information still seemed removed. He knew it was true, he was the trueborn child of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark, but it still seemed a little like a practical joke. He had lived his entire life as a bastard only to find out he was the rightful king right when the title held no actual power anymore. 

His birth came about in tragedy. A lusting Lord, a runaway bride, a prophetic prince, and a grieving brother. All of those lives had been irreversibly changed during Robert’s rebellion. Robert was doomed to a life with Cersei Lannister, Lyanna was doomed to death by the babe inside her, Rhaegar was doomed to fall on the Trident with his skull smashed, and Ned was doomed to live a life full of secrets and misery. Maybe being faced with his mother’s remains would make his parentage seem more real, more serious.

His lifted the lantern and started his slow descent. His footsteps echoed in the dank chambers. He fought a shiver.

Finally, after a few minutes, he made it to his mother’s memorial. Her statue made her seem older, more stoic than what he was told she was like. A free-spirit, he’d heard, a wolf in sheep’s clothing. He reached out to touch the statue, trying to envision what she actually looked like. He knew her hair was dark, like his, but straight unlike his curly hair. He face was youthful, apparently, and her eyes were dark and animated. She was petite, that much could be shown from her statue. Jon had always been shorter than his cousins. He wondered what his father looked like, and what he inherited from him. Jon shared no traits with Danaerys, his aunt, making him wonder if he inherited anything from his father at all.

A droplet of water fell from the ceiling and landed on his mother’s stature, falling down her cheek like a tear. His hand fell to his side, limp.

He turned to look at the memorials of his Uncle Brandon and his grandparents. His Uncle Brandon had a surplus of wolfblood running through his veins, or so he had heard. He was a wild fighter, he had claws and fangs. Jon wondered whether he showed that untamed wolfblood in battle like his uncle. He’d heard many times from Jaime that he was a beast on the battlefield. One-on-one, Jaime had a higher chance of beating Jon than he did beating Jaime, but unbound by the rules of sparring Jon could beat anybody.

His heart ached at the thought of his Lannister friend. They should be arriving at Winterfell soon.

As Jon picked up the lantern to start climbing back to the surface, he suddenly froze. His heart beat erratically. It was a feeling, deep within his chest, like he was hooked and being pulled. He turned around in a circle, hesitant. He slowly walked a few steps and entered the staircase. His feet brought him several levels downward, his shadow elongating on the wall ominously. He entered a small sublevel, and came to face the wall.

He tried to ignore the feeling and turn back, but his feet seemed cemented to the ground. What was so drawing about the wall anyway? He reached up and lightly touched the surface with a finger, then immediately stumbled backward as if he was shocked.

Phantasms raced across his vision and a flurry of colors and sounds. It was like he was seeing a story, but only in fragments. Not enough context to know what it’s about, but enough to feel a steady sense of dread. A middle-aged man begging on his knees. A young girl laying lifeless in the snow. A red priest frantically praying. A raven with a third eye. A tall soldier covered in ice and blood. A parade of weary wildlings.

_ Gods, _ he thought,  _ What happened here? _

Jon stepped back in front of the wall, and ran his fingers over a carving of a fiery heart. The symbol of R’hllor. He laid his palm against the stone and pushed.

Nothing happened.

He frowned for a moment, before remembering the rituals he’s seen throughout his previous life. Jon slid a dagger out from his boot and neatly sliced his hand, watching the stark red blood start to coagulate. He pressed his hand against the stone, and pushed once more.

The wall swung open.

The chamber was nicely lit, despite there being no apparent light source. It was circular in shape, and had a vaulted ceiling. He stepped in and noticed the pedestals in the center of the room.

There were three of them, and two of them held thick and ancient tomes, covered in a fine layer of dust. The third, standing tall in the center, held a mighty sword. Valyrian steel, he instantly noticed, and he couldn’t help but rejoice a little bit. Without going to the wall in this life, he wouldn’t be able to get Longclaw, so this was a nice surprise. The sword was long and wickedly sharp, and its golden hilt was adorned with gleaming rubies the size of a large coin. He took a few steps and grasped the hilt in his hand.

_ Gods, _ he immediately thought.

It felt  _ right _ . It weighed perfectly in his hand and sent a tingling sensation up his spine. He gazed at himself the blade and his reflection looked back in awe. His eyes were opened wide and his tongue was hanging out of his mouth. He turned it a few times in his hand, stepped back, and gave an experimental thrust with it.

_ Wow. _

There was something different about this sword. Something amazing. He forced himself to put it down and stepped over to the tomes.

The cover was adorned in a beautiful script in some unknown language. Jon knew many languages, especially the tribal languages of the free folk, but he admittedly didn’t know this one. He curves of the words jogged a small memory in his mind, though, and after thinking about it, he determined that it was the language of the first men. He flipped the book open and fought the urge to cough when dust was catapulted into the air.

His eyes scanned the unfamiliar text on the pages, before zeroing in on a drawing about a quarter of the way through the book. It was the Night King flanked by an army of wights.

A chill ran through him as he recalled the electric blue eyes that haunted him again and again during the Long Night. Did this book tell the secrets of the Night King and the Long Night? Did it reveal its past and secrets? Its faults and weaknesses? He closed the book with a  _ thud _ and left a note in the back of his mind to bring it to his room to see if he can work on translating it. Jon moved on to the next pedestal.

This tome was bound in a deep red leather. Like the wall, the fiery heart of R’hllor was engraved into its cover. He opened the book and immediately recognized what it was. The tome was a collection of the books of Asshai, the holy books of the red religion. It was written in High Valyrian, a language he thankfully studied. He ran the pads of his fingers over the weathered pages, thinking. He saw a red priest in that vision he had before he entered the chamber, so maybe it had something to do with R’hllor. He found it odd, though, that such a sacred book would be found in the crypts of Winterfell. Only the Old Gods were worshipped here. 

His fingers caught on something and Jon looked down. A ribbon was ticked within the pages of the tome, used as a bookmark, probably. He opened the book to that page, and his eyes automatically zeroed in on two phrases. Everything suddenly became clear.

_ Ōñosmaghare,  _ and  _ Azōr Ahaī  _ stared back at him, taunting him, almost.

_ Lightbringer _ and  _ The Prince Who Was Promised. _

His eyes glanced back at the sword and remembered the feeling he had holding hit. The  _ rightness. _

He was the Prince Who Was Promised. The person who was to end the battle between light and dark. 

_ Melisandre was on to something, _ he realized.

He vaguely recalled Stannis Baratheon having a flaming sword dubbed Lightbringer, but dismissed the thought of it being real. Stannis Baratheon, of all people, wasn’t the Azor Ahai.

He looked back at the book and read a few lines. He was to reforge the sword, he read, and a part of him ached at the thought. The sword was a beauty, and reforging it seemed terrible. Nothing like that should be destroyed, even if it was to be crafted into something else.

He took the took tomes, and held them underarm as he grabbed Lightbringer and started his ascent. An hour should’ve passed around now.

As he trekked up to the surface, he gazed at the shadows on the wall and thought about destiny. His in particular. If he was truly fated to kill the Night King (or the Great Other, as the followers of R’hllor called the being), his journey back in time made sense. He failed the first time around, so in order to carry out his true destiny, he was given a second chance. He vowed that this time the light would win. Summer would come again, he swore, the children that will be born during the winter will be blessed with the sun’s glorious rays. 

He made his way into the castle, which was just waking up. Servants scurried around, getting the castle ready for the day. He received some odd looks, but for the most part, the castle staff was content with leaving him alone. He briskly walked to his chambers, placing the tomes and sword beneath his bed, resolving to keep them there until he decided what to do with them.

He stopped to gaze out the window. Wintertown was starting to be illuminated, glowing faintly, but the sun was still below the horizon. After a quick deliberation, Jon placed his foot on the windowsill and hoisted himself up and out of the window.

Jon climbed with a grace that Bran would be proud of until he reached the roof of his section of the castle. He silently thanked his father and Lady Catelyn for deciding to put his room on one of the higher floors.

He sat on the stone brick and gazed out into the horizon. The sun lazily rose into the sky, painting a beautiful scene. Jon tilted his head back and embraced the warmth. Soon, he’d have to go to breakfast, but for now, he was content with just taking in the sunrise and pondering what the future will have in store.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed it! I've finally got the story completely planned out chapter-by-chapter, so updates are going to be a little more regular now. I made a tumblr for my ao3 account! Come ask questions, give suggestions, and share things with me at @owwwwl-ao3. Thanks for reading.


	10. Jaime II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Lannister asses their situation and decide to act.

A coarse piece of burlap was roughly tied around his eyes and Jaime bit hack a curse. He vaguely heard Tyrion cursing in the background and wished that just once his brother would bite back his tongue. 

“Now listen you shits.” One of the men said, “We’re gonna put you on our horses, and you’re gonna be quiet and still. I don’t want to know if your ass hurts, if your daddy’s gonna throw a hissy fit. I want submission. Hear me?”

“Aye,” Jaime mumbled, and he heard Tyrion do the same.

His hair was grabbed painfully in a fistful, and he was yanked backward and to his knees. He grunted in a mix of pain and disgust as his knees had a hard landing in a patch of wet mud.

“Oh! Oh no, dont! Not that!” Tyrion said from somewhere in front of him and a flash of concern rocketed through Jaime’s body.

“How else did you think we were gonna get you on the horse, you imp? Think we were gonna levitate you?”

They were lifting him onto the horse, Jaime realized with a sigh. It would probably be harder to get Tyrion mounted upon the horse over Jaime. Tyrion, despite being short in stature, was stocky and actually weighed more than people expected him to. 

He then felt himself being shoved forward by a pair of calloused hands. His pant leg was grabbed and his boot was placed in what was assumably a reign.

“You can get up by yourself, huh? Wanna show us?” The nasally voiced one said. Randyll, was it?

He stood there for a moment, wondering how he was going to mount the horse without any hands or vision. He could hear the soldiers mockingly laugh at him.

“What?” one said, “You can’t mount of the horse by yourself? Doubt you can even shit by yourself, kingslayer.”  
He felt his cheeks heat up. Look at him, being humiliated by some random men. Boys, really. He turned his head towards the voices and spat at the ground. The voices quieted.

He took a gamble and lifted his left foot and blindly swing it upwards and over. A burst of fear flashed through him when his left leg was suspended in mid-air, but it dispersed as quickly as it came when he landed on the horse’s back with a dull  _ thud. _

“Hm.” He hummed, proud of himself. The men grumbled behind him.

One of the men mounted the horse behind him and reached around him to grasp the reigns.

“Giddyup!”

His body jolted and his legs clenched around the animal. It was surprisingly hard to stay firmly upon a horse without the use of your hands to brace yourself. He could only imagine how much harder it was for Tyrion.

Jaime tried to memorize the turns they took and count the seconds in between them, but without knowing precisely how fast the horse was traveling, the information was practically useless.

As they rode on and on for what seemed like hours, Jaime pondered his situation. He and his brother were captured by men supposedly working for the Frey family, despite free-travel laws in effect all over the continent. Whoever these men were, they were either reckless, ignorant, or over-confident. 

And he remembered what the younger one said. Something about ransom. That didn’t sound like a move Walder Frey would make. Jaime’s father could easily be convinced to go to war in a situation like that even though he had more than enough gold to spare for his two sons' safety. And it wouldn’t be about their safety, not really, it would be about his reputation.

_ That’s one trait my father and I share, _ Jaime vaguely thought,  _ pride. _

They rode on for an indiscernible amount of time, and it wasn’t long before Jaime’s leg muscles started to ache and his ass became sore and probably bruised. He periodically was reassured Tyrion was still okay through the various grunts and mumbles coming from his brother’s direction. Eventually, the horses slowed down to a walk, then stopped altogether. 

“Not a bad spot for a temporary camp.” One commented, “Not bad at all.”

“Set up the tents.” The gruff one barked, and by the sounds of it, his command was obeyed. 

“And start a fire while you’re at it.”

He momentarily felt the cold steel of a dagger against his wrists and he tensed as the ropes were pulled taut. Suddenly, the tension was released and his hands fell free to his sides. He didn’t even have time to flex his raw wrists, though, before they were tightly grabbed.

“Get off the horse, kingslayer.”

The man sharply tugged Jaime’s hands, and, without wasting a breath, Jaime slid off the horse. His makeshift blindfold was ripped off his eyes, no doubt leaving angry red lines crisscrossing his face. He blinked slowly, taking in his environment for the first time in hours.

His surroundings were only illuminated by the flickering flames of the campfire and the pale yellow moon which hung low in the sky. Jaime gazed through the hazy smoke and found that they were in a clearing surrounded by dense forest. They had gone off the main roads and had probably taken a small hunting path to get to their location.

He looked to his right, and saw Tyrion being hosted off the horse he rode on. The poor dwarf looked miserable. To think just hours ago the worst of his bodily problems was a frozen dick. Now he probably had a bruised arse, aching wrists, and sore thighs to go along with it. SImilarly to Jaime, his blindfold was ripped off.

He caught Tyrion’s eye, and for a moment they merely looked at each other. 

Tyrion raised his eyebrows at Jaime as if saying,  _ Well, what are we to do now?  _

Jaime quirked a singular eyebrow back, hoping to convey his uncertainty. Two against six was hardly an easy fight to win, especially when two of them were unarmed. 

“Well,” the eye-patched one began, “We need our fookin’ beauty sleep. Need to be up and presentable tomorrow in front of the Freys. We’re gonna tie you to the tree. You try anything, you die. Am I understood?”

Jaime and Tyrion looked uneasily at each other.

“Am I bloody understood?!” The man screamed, veins bulging from his thick neck.

The brothers quickly grunted in response.

“Randyll, Derrik, take care of these two fuckers for me.”

The two younger ones stepped forward, and Jaime observed them as they shoved him and Tyrion to a large tree. Randyll was the one with the annoying nasally voice, he noticed. The boy couldn’t have been over ten and six. Acne marred his face, adding a mix of blood and pus to the dirt that already coated it. One of his teeth was a dark brown color, no doubt rotting straight out of his mouth. His breath stank foully of onions and garlic.

The other boy, Derrik assumedly, was tall and willowy. His type of skinny screamed malnutrition and childhood starvation. When he smiled at Jaime while bounding his arms around the tree, Jaime saw his gums bleed profusely. That coupled with the red rashes and dark bruises covering the boy’s face made Jaime conclude he had scurvy.

_ By the Seven, _ Jaime thought,  _ how badly do the Freys treat their men? _

Both Randyll and Derrik wore ratty tunics and too-short trousers.

“Look a’ ya.” Derrik said, his eyes trained on Jaime, “Looks like Mr. proud an’ mighty has fallen, huh?” He licked the blood of his lips and spat in Jaime’s face. The droplet landed wetly on his forehead and left a sticky residue on his face.

“You think yours look pathetic?” Randyll mocked, “Look a’ mine! The imp’s even more of a freak than I thought!”

They jeered at the brothers, and Jaime had to set his jaw to avoid retorting. Tyrion seemingly didn't have such self-preservation skills, though.

“Your mother fuck a horse?” He said, “No other way you can get buck teeth like those.”

The boy sneered at him and slapped him across the face. Tyrion looked nonplussed. It would take a lot more to phase survivors of the Long Night, after all.

“Watch your fuckin’ mouth, imp. You too, kingslayer. We’re hard people here, and don’t take to kindly to insults.”

With those parting words, they walked away poured dirt on the fire and ducked into a tent.

Jaime shivered, feeling the cold of the air around him, and blinked his eyes trying to adjust to the darkness.

“Alright, brother?” He whispered while leaning his head against the rough bark of the tree, his voice raspy. 

“Alright? Jaime, we’re being held hostage. In what situation would this be considered ‘alright?’” His words were sharp and exasperated.

Jaime sighed and the brothers lapsed into silence for a few minutes. It was a lot colder with the sun down, especially without the heat of the fire, and he found his teeth chattering. Jaime closed his eyes and tried to forget about the lowering temperature. His focus zeroed in on the tent their captors disappeared into.

They were heatedly discussing something, Jaime realized. Arguing was a better word for it, maybe. He could only hear the conversation in broken snippets, but it pulled his attention off of his predicament, so he eavesdropped anyway.

“But...money!” One said, muffled.

“...there’s a law...more serious than…” another one reasoned back.

“...Lannisters! ...father...war…The risk may not be equal to the reward…” Jaime shushed Tyrion sharply and strained his ears. Their captors were discussing them. Tyrion caught on and seemed to be intently listening as well. Unfortunately, though, just when their ears were tuned in, shushing noises came from the tent their voices seemed to lower into a dull murmur.

“You hear that? Jaime? It sounds like…”

Jaime swallowed and made a noise of agreement.

He thought back to the ill-fitting clothing, the poor hygiene, the scurvy.

“They’re bounty hunters,” Tyrion said, “They just want money, really. And they’re trying to exploit the Lannister heirs and fortune to do it.”

“Not very smart,” Jaime mentioned.

Tyrion hummed in agreement before replying, “So besides being outnumbered and unarmed, what’s stopping us from slipping away right now?”

Jaime blinked, “Well, you said it. We’re outnumbered and unmanned. Those are pretty big disadvantages, brother.”  
Tyrion guffawed, “So we’re just supposed to let them bring us to the fucking Freys and have father dearest start a war?”

Jaime sighed, “What the hell. Try to get out of your restraints and we’ll go from there.”

He wiggled his wrists, testing the ropes. They were pulled and knotted tightly, and would be a pain in the ass to escape from. That man with the eyepatch had definitely been doing stuff like this for a long time.

He pressed his thumbs into the palms of his hands and yanked. The rope rubbed painfully against his wrists and he could hear Tyrion having similar problems.

He closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths, gathering his senses. The rope was tied unevenly, and his right hand had more slack that his left. It would be tough, but he could potentially slip his right hand out. It would probably be injured in the process, but if he could survive without a right hand for years, he can survive with an injured one until he sees a healer or it heals.

“Hold on a moment, Tyrion.” he whispered, “I’ve… almost got it.”

Jaime pulled his shoulders downwards and wiggled his right thumb until he heard and felt it pop. Painfully, he worked it out of its constraints from there.

He grunted as he rolled his thumb around in its socket. It would be a bugger for about a moon, but he had bigger fish to fry.

He strained his arm, wincing at how it pulled the tendons in his shoulder, and grasped his hand around a sharp rock nearby. It would take a while to hack the ropes apart with the stone, but it would suffice.

He reached around the tree, straining to reach his other hand, and tried to smack the pointy end of the rock into the ropes, pulling his hand away with as much slack as possible to avoid chopping his hand accidentally. 

The rock bounced off the ropes and slammed into the tree bark instead. He whined in frustration. 

“Hurry up, will you?” Tyrion said, “I  _ really _ don’t want to be caught trying to escape. You see those swords they had? Wicked sharp.”

“I’m trying, brother,” Jaime spat out. He couldn’t blame Tyrion for the bite in his tone because both of them seemed to get snippy when stressed, but it sure wasn’t helping his situation nonetheless.

He did it again, a little more accurately this time. The rope groaned and creaked, so he took that as a good sign and continued. 

By the time the rope frayed enough to cut rip through, it was the dead of night. The tent had been silent for what seemed like hours and the moon hung low in the sky. Dark and oppressive grey clouds and thick foliage blocked out a lot of the light from the moon, and it was terribly cold. Not even close to the bone-chillingness of the Long Night, but still far from comfortable.

He softly grunted and stretched his wrists as he stood up. A flare of pain shot from his thumb. He made a note in the back of his mind to splint it when they had the time.

He made sure to keep his footsteps light as he tread over to Tyrion and worked to free him of his restraints as well.

“Jaime,” Tyrion whispered, “Did you see were the put our stuff? Y’know, our swords, our food. We’re going to need them eventually, Jaime.”

“I know, I know.” He sighed, “We’re gonna have to figure that all out once we leave this hellhole.”

“Not even a horse? They’re tied up right there.” He tilted his head towards the four sleeping horses tied to a set of trees. The two Jaime and Tyrion rode were obviously looked more highbred than the two the bandits rode in. Jaime looked at the two sets of horses, and bit the inside of his cheek, shaking his head.

“If we take our horses, we’ll stand out like a sore thumb. If we take theirs, others may recognize the horses.”

Tyrion rolled his eyes, “So what? We’re just going to run away and hope they don’t catch up to us when they’re on horseback?”

Jaime contemplated the idea. There were logical sides to both arguments, and frankly, he would prefer if they weren’t in the situation in the first place.

“Fine, we’ll take one.” He begrudgingly agreed, “We’ll get some distance on it, and maybe then sell it for enough provisions to make it to Winterfell.”

The rock cut through the rope with a satisfying  _ rrrip, _ and Tyrion stood up on shaky legs.

“Let’s get the fuck out of here,” Jaime said.

Jaime quickly walked over untied one of their horses and tried helped Tyrion on it, but before he could the man got a mischievous glint in his eye.

“I have to leave a parting gift for our dear, captors, dear brother, haven’t you learned common courtesy?”

“Ugh,” Jaime said through a barely concealed smile.

Tyrion walked over to the tent and the pungent smell of piss permeated through the air as Jaime turned his back. 

“ _ Now _ are you ready?”

“Yes. I believe I am,” he replied with a cheeky grin.

Jaime helped him on the horse then mounted behind him.

“Better get out of here before they find our housewarming gift, right Tyrion?”

They both tried to muffle their laughs as they rode out into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank's for reading! Talk to me in the comments!


	11. Theon I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Theon and Jon talk. They have an experience of a lifetime.

**Theon I**

Theon stumbled through Winterfell’s halls, aching. He had taken an extended trip to Wintertown, and it was filled with ale, heavy-breasted girls, and an unfortunate tavern brawl. His escapades into Wintertown have always been equal parts headache-inducing and liberating. He was a man now, and he could do what he wanted. Not even his father had the power to hold him back. He knew his behavior was unbecoming for the son of a lord, but he was a hostage of the crown, so he figured he had nothing to lose. 

Nobody wanted him. Nobody cared for him. In Winterfell, that deep-rooted loneliness and insecurity felt suffocating, constricting, but in Wintertown, it felt powerful, almost. Liberating. If he couldn’t be a proper member of House Greyjoy, then he might as well be an improper one. 

Theon recalled what little he remembered of Pyke, that godforsaken island. The crisp bite of the salty air. The crash and tides of the powerful waves. Foam covered sea glass washed up on the rocky sand. His mother’s siren-esque voice singing songs of ages past. He also remembered his father’s heavy hand, though. And how the entire seemed to turn various shades of depressing grey during the rebellion. How the sky was heavy and dark, and pressed down upon the world as of it were weighted. And the rocks shone with bleak wetness and how the air perpetually was moist with the frustrating mix between a mist and a drizzle. Despite having some less-than-stellar memories on the island, a part of him still longed for it: A place where he belonged, where the Drowned God was worshipped, and where he actually had family, no matter their scorn for him.

He would probably be alienated in the Iron Islands if he returned now, he realized. He’s become too far removed. He frowned at the thought.

He turned the corner, heading towards his chambers, but found himself running into someone. He bounced back and braced himself against the wall, his head spinning.

“Fucking hell,” Theon cursed, his words slurred.

“Theon?” the person said, and oh no. It was Jon Snow. Of all people he could run into at the time, it had to be Snow.

“Fuck off,” he spat, “Let me go to my room and sleep.” The statement was honest - he truly was tired and wanted to be left alone - but even he could admit the sentence could’ve been delivered in a nicer manner. But who cares anyway? Not him, no sir.

Theon tried to push past him and continue his stumbling trek down the hall, but Snow unexpectedly reached out and grabbed his bicep firmly, yanking him back so he was looking at the bastard face-to-face. His grip was tight and strong, showcasing another drastic change that had gone through him within the past few months. Theon was older than Jon. He should be able to be better than him. Sparring, strength, archery, wrestling, foot races. Everything, really. But a few months ago, seemingly overnight, the scrappy shy boy had changed into someone harder, fiercer, more confident. Strange, it was. He ripped his arm out of Jon’s hand forcefully and crossed his arms, impatient. Snow was really trying his luck, wasn’t he?

“What d’ya want, Snow?” He asked. “All I want is to fucking sleep, and someone seems to be getting in the way of that.”

Jon looked at him sadly with his big dark eyes, and Theon felt a surge of annoyance swell up in him. 

“What the fuck do you want? Do you need me to repeat it again? Are you deaf or something?”

Jon took a deep breath and twisted his mouth into an unreadable expression, “What are you doing, Theon? Why are you doing this, really?”

The sudden sentiment was unexpected and made Theon falter for a second. What was he trying to do, confronting him in the hallway like that? What was he trying to accomplish?

“Why- why-” he stuttered, “Why am I doing _what_? Drinking? Sleeping around? Getting into fights? How is that any different from my normal behavior, Snow? Why don’t you tell me that?”

“I never said anything about normal behavior, Theon. I was asking why do you do all that in the first place. Is it for attention? To numb the pain? What is it, Theon? I want to know.” 

His words were blunt but had an underlying tone of curiosity. Snow didn’t talk much, sure, but Theon knew he observed quite a bit. Did he think he knew something about him, was that it? Was he trying to _diagnose _him or something? Theon gritted his teeth, sighed through his nose, stared at him for a moment, and blinked, “Why do _ you _care?”

Jon looked down and shrugged his shoulders, “Maybe we’re not as different as you think. We’re both removed from what would’ve been our homes. Both alienated by society. Both under the care of Ned Stark. Maybe I want to help, Theon. Maybe I recognize some of me in you.”

Theon guffawed.

“No. Listen!” Jon said with a slight underlying tone of urgency, “I know something you don’t. And if you do what I say, the entire continent can benefit from it. That’ll get you attention, Theon, positive attention. Are you up for the challenge?”

Theon wanted to say no, he really did. What does Jon know about him? What was he privy to that Theon’s not? Jackshit, that’s what. But the _challenge. _If he backed down he’d be a coward. He had nothing to lose, really. (Nothing definite to gain, either, but his hazy mind wasn’t going to admit that).

“What challenge” he questioned, hiding his hesitance with false cockiness and curiosity, “What do you need me to do, Snow?”

A small grin found its way upon Jon’s face and a burst of accomplishment flashed through his eyes. “Come with me, then. Let’s not have this conversation in the middle of the hall.”

He then turned on his heel and strode confidently down the hallway, a man on a mission. He still looked back at Theon over his shoulder though, revealing an odd snippet of insecurity. Theon shrugged to himself and started to follow, his footsteps heavy and his leg muscles, all sore and wobbly from the nearing two straight days he’s gone without sleep, were voicing their complaints with random creaking and popping noises. 

They walked one after the other through the castle’s stone majesty, taking hallways Theon wasn’t even sure he knew existed. Theon tried to remember the turns they took and the paths that lead them there, but they were too numerous and inconsistent. Despite his confusion, Theon began to realize something about their journey. They were slowly yet continuously descending, despite only using one staircase. Parts of the castle must’ve been slanted. Built on a hill, maybe. Nevertheless, they were heading towards the bottom of the castle, and the lack of windows revealed the fact they were underground.

The bottom of the castle was hardly used in day-to-day life. The outside reaches of it were used by servants, and somewhere there was a staircase leading to the dank dungeons, but Theon didn’t know where. Besides that, it was mostly empty, unused space. The bottom of the castle was the oldest, the stones weathered yet fond, and a lot of the rooms were ceremonial and obsolete in purpose, their uses dissolved throughout the centuries. As he passed large empty rooms covered in cobwebs and dust, he felt a shiver go through him. How did Jon even know his way around down in this ghost town?

On the way to their destination, Jon told him a few things about his “challenge.” They were instructions, really. He should start writing his sister, Yara, letters, apparently, in order to gain a closer relationship with her. And he should also spend more proper time in Winterfell, with the Starks. Meals, especially, for they, according to Jon, were both the easiest and the most impactful to do. Theon frowned, unable to understand why he had to do all this, but he remembered the look on Jon’s face when he told him he knew something Theon didn’t. The urgency twisted into his features, the maturity, the concealed pain. So, he decided to rise up to the challenge despite his confusion. 

They finally reached what seems to be Jon’s destination, and they both sat down onto the cold, echoey stone. They were in a rotunda, of sorts, and the ceiling was high and vaulted. Tapestries hung from the walls depicting scenes of heroics from ages past. Fireplaces lined the walls, their mantles carved in bas relief and painted elaborately with colorful ink.

Theon looked around, “Where _ are _ we?”

“Doesn’t matter,” was the oh-so-specific reply from Jon. The bastard reached around himself and grabbed the old leather pack that was strapped to his back. From it, he first pulled a pair of sturdy gloves, and next, a misshapen and mangled sword. Even with the blade’s deformities, Theon couldn’t help but draw in a breath of appreciation.

It’s silvery blade glinted in the low torchlight of the chamber and shone with something akin to legends and heroes, blood and grime, determination and destiny. Its gilded hilt was bejeweled with gemstones that looked half-melted, molded into the sword as if they were always part of it. It was super thin, Theon noticed, so not particularly heavy, but it looked like it had the ability to be sharp and precise enough to cut a strand of hair in half.

“I know, right?” Jon said, noticing his silent appreciation.

Theon let out a surprised laugh, “Where in the seven hells did you get that, Snow?”

“That’s for me to know and for you to find out.”

Theon blinked and shook his head in disbelief. Jon must’ve gone insane; that would excuse his crazy behavior.

“Anyway,” Jon said, “As for why we’re down here, we’re reforging this beauty.” He gestured to the sword with his other hand.

“I would ask why, but I don’t think you’re going to give me a straight answer,” remarked Theon.

Jon smiled, “Observant.” He walked over to a fireplace and began to prepare to light a fire in it.

Theon sighed out of his nose and rubbed his head, his leftover drunkenness turning into a hangover. How did he get roped into this anyway? All he wanted was to sleep off the ale and try to regain at least some of his dignity within Winterfell. He couldn't stand anymore pitying and disapproving looks from the people who knew who he was. 

He was practically anonymous in Wintertown. No one knew he was the traitor’s disposable son. A hostage of the Crown. He was just like any other man: drunk, horny, and looking for trouble.

Now, instead of sleeping, he’d found himself sitting in some abandoned part of the castle with Jon fucking Snow trying to reforge a sword with no materials for reasons unknown. What the hell.

A fire blazed to life near Jon, and Theon was hit with a burst of heat and shadowy light along with an intense few _crackle pop _’s emerging from the flames.

“So,” he started, “How are we doing this? Is smithery one of the skills you’ve miraculously gained overnight, Snow?”

Jon looked up at him while strapping on the gloves, and orange embers were reflected in his eyes, “No. I don’t know what I’m doing, really. Figured I’d just try whatever. Can’t be _ that _ hard.”

Theon rubbed his temple, “You- you- ugh. I’m still too drunk for this. Hungover. Whatever.”

Jon flashed a smile and Theon was briefly overcome with annoyance. Nevertheless, he followed the bastard’s example when he crouched near the roaring flames. The heat hit his face in a wall of glowing yellow and his burning eyes forced him into rapidly blinking a few times.

“Where’s the smoke go?” He asked, suddenly realizing something, “We’re on the bottom floor, I think. Below ground. The chimney can’t go all the way up to the roof.”

Jon looked up and sniffed the smoke in the air. “I dunno. Maybe, if we’re below ground level, it just goes to the surface and escapes through the earth. Why do you want to know?”

“No reason.” Answered Theon, “Just wondering.”

He certainly didn’t want to die of smoke inhalation. The founding Starks of Winterfell seemed smart, but he doesn’t know. Maybe the person who built this room was particularly dumb and messed shit up.

They both turned their attention back to the task at hand and stared at the flames for a moment. They mesmerizingly danced in a sporadic haze of heat and light. _ Red, yellow, orange_. The flames seemed to paint pictures, tell stories. Was that a mighty dragon he saw in the midst of the fire? An animated corpse? A priestess? He blinked and shivered, his tongue suddenly dry. He really should cut back on the ale.

“So. I suppose I should just... stick it in there, right?” Jon asked, like Theon would know the answer to the question. Theon turned towards Jon anyway, and raised a mischievous eyebrow.

“Jon,” he replied with a smirk, “When and doubt, you should always _ stick it in there _ if you get my gist.”

Jon made a surprised noise and looked at Theon with wide eyes. Then he snickered, shaking his head while doing so. 

“Doubt you do know, though, you virgin. Go ahead, Jon, stick your sword in the heat. Maybe with a fire tong. That would be smart, wouldn’t it.”

To his mild shock, Jon laughed. It was a full, rich sound, unlike Theon had ever heard from Jon before. Another way Jon had changed. A few months ago, he would have prudishly shrugged off Theon’s comments. Now, he seemed to be amused by them, even if he was still caught off-guard. Jon laughed as if he was used to hearing dirty things, something Theon knew to be false. 

“I didn’t bring any fire tongs,” Jon replied, “I dunno. I feel like, in order to reforge it, it needs sacrifice. Pain.”

Theon raised his eyebrows. What in the world was he going on about?

Jon snapped out of it and suddenly chuckled, his eyes shining. “Ok then.” He said, “I’ll do just that. Stick it in there.”

He spun the hilt in his hand, testing its weight, and with one last appreciative glance, he thrust the sword into the flames.

Despite the sweat pooling at his brow, Theon suddenly felt an electrifying chill shake his entire body. Something big was happening. Something monumental. Something _legendary_. And he was going to witness it. His hands were trembling with adrenaline and excitement. He was no longer as tired anymore; it felt like his entire body had been woken, invigorated with blood pumping through his veins at the speed of light.

The orange flames eccentrically danced up the length of the blade like a creature, and they burned white-hot and dangerous. Smoke fogged his eyes and made them burn with intensity but Theon forced them to stay open, to observe what was about to happen.

The flames crept closer to Jon’s hand, but the bastard turned his head away, gripped the hilt with white knuckles, and twisted his face into a grimace. Theon watched morbidly as the gloves charred in white-hot heat, bits and pieces of them blackening and fizzing off into the air, becoming one with the flames. The exposed skin on the tips to Jon’s fingers turned increasingly red, then a dead white. Parts of it curled up like burning paper. 

“Can’t you take it out now?” Theon asked, tearing his eyes away from the gruesome sight.

Jon grunted, “No. Not yet.”

Theon blinked a few times rapidly and took a step away from the fire, its heat becoming unbearable. “Now? How about now? Jon, your hand’s gonna burn off.”

The flames reached up and encompassed his wrist. Black skin floated into the air. Theon vaguely recognized that Jon must’ve rolled his sleeves to his elbows before this. A good idea. The fire burned on.

“Jon. Stop it. What are you waiting for? I don’t want to explain to your lord father why we disappeared together and how your hand is burnt to the bone. I don’t even have an excuse for that one! Stop it.”

Jon hissed in pain and his arm was noticeably shaking. “Theon. Theon, tell me- look into the flames. What- do you see, what do you _feel? _ Tell me. I need- I need to know before I stop.”

Theon took a step towards the fire. He was willing to indulge in Jon’s hysterics if it lessened the final injury. Theon prided himself as being a tough man, but nobody enjoyed witnessing someone be burned alive. That is, besides Aerys Targaryen. He stared into the flames next to Jon’s charred hand, trying to pry his eyes away from it and tried not to inhale the scent of charring skin.

The flames were mesmerizing, admittingly. They curled and lifted crackled. Their bellies were a deep harrowing red sitting restlessly atop glowing orange embers. He focused there and opened his mind.

Suddenly, he was stumbling back in shock. His stomach pooled with warm awe and his mind reeled with prophecy. A sense of an impatient future was barging at the door, ready to release its deluge onto the people, ready to sweep them off their feet in tales the history books would mention with barely concealed deference and hero-worship. What was in store? Something great, for sure. And it all revolved around-

“Jon!” He gasped, sounding almost like a prayer, “Jon.”

The person in question whipped his hand out of the flames and the sword came with it, still red hot and flaming. It clattered to the ground with an echoing _clang _and he grabbed a canteen from his bag and poured cool water over the smoking and wrinkled skin of his hand before cradling it to his chest with an almost imperceptible whimper. Even through the evident pain, his dark eyes quickly turned to examine the sword on the ground. Theon did the same and had to bite his tongue to avoid letting out a large gasp. 

It lit up the portion of the room, glowing faintly. It seemed crazy that a sword could have a complete makeover just by sticking it in a fire, but just that seemed to have happened. Magick must’ve been involved, Theon thought almost giddily. _ Magick. _How much of the world was soaked in prophecy that he didn’t know about? What secret layers were hidden beneath perceptible reality. What wonders lay undiscovered just out of reach of the mundane man? That sword. It sang. It sang of all of that plus destiny.

It’s Valyrian Steel glinted and shone, it’s blade so shiny you could use it as a mirror. It was long and thin, and Theon could just picture Jon fighting with it. It was lithe, but powerful, plain yet king-worthy -- Just like Jon. Its hilt was soft molded leather, intertwined with flecks of golden thread. A glinting ruby sat where the silver met leather, and it just seemed _right. _

“Lightbringer,” Jon rasped, “That’s it’s name.”

_ Lightbringer _.

The name echoed around in his head repeatedly.

_ Lightbringer. _

Times were changing, evidently. This was the dawn of a new era

_ Lightbringer. _

He shivered in anticipation.

Theon had no clue what was happening. Or why, or how. It was crazy to think that just a few hours ago he was stumbling around drunk off his ass. But he reckoned he would go along with what Jon said from here on out anyway. This was history in the making and he wanted to be part of it.

“So,” Theon started with a disbelieving chuckle, “What’s our excuse for that hand gonna be?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Thanks for reading. Talk to me (nicely) in the comments! Do you think I should tag something that isn't already? Tell me if you do, please.


	12. Catelyn II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Catelyn receives a letter, and the future is discussed.

**Catelyn II**

Catelyn opened her eyes to gaze at a dark room. The castle was silent. She sighed, and rolled over, looking at the ceiling with tired eyes. She had been sleeping restlessly ever since she learned of her children’s futures. She lay awake in the middle of the night more often than not, her mind running relentlessly in anxiety. Destiny was a frequent term brought up in conversations with Ned, Robb, and Jon. But to her, destiny, despite its very meaning, seemed hesitant, uncertain. There was no way to know what exactly was destined to happen, after all?

What if Jon was destined to fail, like he did the last time? What if her children’s fates were unavoidable? The thoughts kept her from sleep.

At first, she had tried to find peace in her sept. She prayed to the Seven all night at times, to the Crone especially, for guidance and reassurance. But turns out praying didn’t exactly calm her mind. Spending that much time alone in her head made her grow even more nervous about the upcoming years, and caused her to painstakingly overthink things. So she had turned away from praying and decided to do something about it all.

Now, when she awoke early and couldn’t fall back asleep, she rolled out of bed, dressed in her day clothes, and started her day’s work, specifically the kind that revolved around Jon’s situation. It was better to get the work done under the cover of night, anyway, when fewer people would be around to question her actions. Ned admittingly wasn’t a big fan of it, insisting that she needed more sleep, but she continued to do it anyway. She could help bend destiny, maybe, but only if she worked to do it. 

She turned to look at Ned. His hard face was softened in sleep, and she wondered how he could sleep so deeply in such troubling times. He had always been a heavy sleeper, almost always sleeping through the night. Maybe that was his body’s way of coping with the stress: sleeping to forget it all.

She sighed and sat up, peeling the quilt away from her body. It was a mild time of year, and the quilt was a little suffocating at night, but it wasn’t warm enough yet to transfer the warm wool to the cool silk. Catelyn rolled out of bed and padded across the stone. She rummaged through her clothing and found a plain, grey dress. Comfortable, yet suitable. Pretty, but not overly eye-catching. She put it on and lightly combed her hair before rolling on her stockings, strapping on a pair of boots, and starting her journey to the ravenry.

The lantern cast dim shadows on the wall, that twisted and moved like they were alive. Nevertheless, she was calm. Her days were always filled with action and noise. These moments, before the sun would rise and the castle would wake up, were precious moments of serenity.

Every footstep echoed dully as she made her way through the castle’s twists and turns. It had taken her a while to figure it out when she had first come to Winterfell- the layout of the castle, that is. Winterfell was unbelievably large and mighty. Its walls sang an ancient song of perseverance and foresight. It had intimidated her at first, so startlingly different from Riverrun’s white walls and efficient size. But now it felt powerful. She was a Stark, even if by marriage, and there was something Winterfell that made her truly appreciate the Stark heritage and the North as a whole.

Catelyn finally arrived at the ravenry, and she slowly creaked open the heavy pine door. Most of the birds were still sleeping, their heads ducked to their breasts. The few ones who were awake squawked at her with interest. She had become a frequent visitor to the raverny after receiving the job of dealing with Southern communication, and the birds seemed to recognize her. 

One of the ravens was sitting in the window, and at closer inspection, Catelyn determined it arrived overnight. She walked forward and carefully untied the letter from its foot. The parchment was yellowed and cheap, the wax seal messily orchestrated. The words “to the Stark family” were scrawled with drippy ink on the outside fold. Most of the letters she handled were meticulous and handled with care, with expensive parchment, curvy handwriting, and elaborate seals. Who could this letter possibly be from?

She frowned and broke the deal, unfolding the letters.

“_Dear Lord or Lady Stark,” _ it started, “ _ My name is Erwyn, and I am of no notable house or family. However, I do believe we can benefit from a correspondence.” _

_ Erwyn, _ she thought absentmindedly. It was a southern male name. She was curiously intrigued now, and continued to read the messy handwriting.

“_You see, I have experienced the future, if you can call it that. If all goes to plan, hopefully this future will never happen.” _

Catelyn blinked. She’s never heard of this “Erwyn,” so how did he know to contact her? Sending messages like these were risky, and shouldn’t be done without hesitance. She’d have to talk to Jon to see if he knew this “Erwyn” character, and whether or not she should trust him.

_ “I live in King's Landing, which is indisputably the hub of most of the political events that can and will transpire. I can’t do much about the Long Night down here, but I can share some insider knowledge in the political and social climate in the city. I work as a servant (I am primarily part of the waitstaff) at the castle, so I am around this knowledge often.” _

Catelyn hummed. Having an inside-source in King’s Landing definitely sounded appealing, but it would be a very precarious situation. His want to help the efforts in any way he could was admirable, though, and Catelyn decided she would hear him out.

_ “But it is not only me who could be receiving and passing along information. I am aware of others in King’s Landing who share my similar predicament of remembrance, and they have all expressed interest in forming an underground network, of sorts, gaining information and sharing it with our Northern counterparts. There aren’t many of us rememberers in the south, but I assure you these people are the most trustworthy, and the only reason it is I who is writing this letter instead of one of them is because I am the most literate.” _

She looked up from the letter in contemplation and mild shock. This base-born servant was trying to form a spy-network! The idea almost seemed absurd, but the more she thought about it, the idea seemed more and more useful. They had no one to their awareness in the South that knew of the future besides the Lannister brothers, who were currently on their way North. It would certainly help to know the inner-happenings in King’s Landing.

But with Varys and Petyr Baelish, the move sounded risky. Deadly, even. If they got wind about these letters and their contents… Those men didn’t like not knowing things, and this talk of a “future” would be sure to get them irreversibly curious, and, as a result, meddlesome. That would be a worst-case-scenario. 

Catelyn looks down to find she had crumpled part of the letter while trapped in her reverie, her knuckles white. She shakily sighed, tried to flatten out the piece of parchment, and continued reading.

_ “I am aware of how dangerous this sounds, and I have a solution to at least lessen the risk. My mother was from a far-off land, and she was enslaved there. Literate slaves and slave-sympathizers in a freedom-network would communicate secretly through letters through a method they called “ _ gauro _ .” This word has no Westerosi equivalent, but in essence, they communicated through invisible writing. It sounds outlandish, I know, but she has taught me her ways, and I have tried the technique myself; it works.” _

She let out an incredulous laugh. Invisible writing! How in the world? She wondered which land his mother came from, and how he ended up in Westeros. At first, she determined that it must’ve been extremely far away because she had never heard of the method as well as the word which went with it until now. Also, slavery was outlawed in Westeros and many other lands. Then, she realized with a start, that his mother could very well be Essosi, and could’ve hailed from just across the sea. How would she, a Westerosi lady, ever hear of secret slave communication systems? A chill ran through her body. The fact that slavery existed so close made her uncomfortable. The concept seemed so far removed in Westeros, yet it defined people’s lives not too far away. She read on.

_ “You can do this in a few simple steps. First, you mix the juice of a lemon with a little bit of water. This is your ‘ink.’ You write your message with this mixture, then let it dry. The message would probably be on one side of a piece of parchment, and a nondescript average letter could be written with normal ink on the other side in order to avoid at least some suspicion. You can send the letter at this point. The receiver of the message must put the side of the paper with the concealed words on it close to a flame (candle, I suggest). This will reveal the message. Plus, after one has read it, they could just burn the parchment to rid themselves of it. Simple, isn’t it?” _

She looked up from the letter and gazed out the window for a few seconds. This plan sounded outlandish, bizarre. It consisted of secret communications with Southern peasants using lemon-juice ink! But if they could pull it off? Well, Erwyn and his network could be proven invaluable in the next few years. 

But should she trust this mysterious southerner? There was no way to truly know. She could keep the correspondence mostly one-sided, she figured. He could share information with her and she didn’t have to share any back, but that surely wasn’t a way to gain a trustworthy ally.

This man took a leap of faith, contacting Winterfell directly like that. He couldn’t have known whose hands the letter could’ve ended up in, and even if anyone in Winterfell was aware of this so-called “future.” She supposed she should take an equally risky leap of faith back, but nevertheless, she was hesitant. There must’ve been people brought back who didn’t necessarily have Jon’s interest in mind, and the fact that she hadn’t come in contact with any yet left a bitter taste in her mouth and a churning of her stomach. What if this Erwyn was a betrayer, and did this only to double-cross her in the end? She had every right to be wary, but also, she reckoned, she also had a right to nurture the small flicker of hope that welled up inside her. Catelyn sighed through her nose and finished reading the letter.

_ “I do hope to receive a reply. Please know I only have Westeros’s best interest in mind. Only a fool wouldn’t support Jon and his quest against the Long Night. We live in Westeros, and despite the piece of shit that is King’s Landing, I still don’t like the idea of the continent falling to the Night King and his frigid powers. _

_ “I test the backsides of almost all letters which come my way, so if your response is encrypted with _ gauro _ and signed with a different name, I will still receive it and start to draft a reply myself. _

_ “Best of Wishes, _

_ Erwyn” _

The sun had begun to peek over the horizon, and the sky was stained a brilliant magenta. The castle had begun to awake, and as sunlight draped over her and warmed her skin, the sounds of the staff met her ears. She folded up the letter neatly and slipped it into the seam of her dress. A meeting with her husband, Ned, and Robb had been scheduled after they broke their fast this morning, and she’d bring the matter up with them there. She departed the ravenry and headed towards the dining hall.

She nodded at a few servants as she made her way there, and observed the early castle rousing for work. Everyone moved about in quiet business, tired but ready to start the day nonetheless. Catelyn passed a small blond boy on her way to the family wing and realized amusedly that he was probably being sent to wake her son and Jon up. Those boys could sleep half the day away if they were allowed to. Robb especially. Jon seemed to suffer through bouts of insomnia, but besides that he seemed glad and relieved to sleep without much care. During the Long Night, there was no doubt in her mind that he slept fitfully for only an hour or two a night. Without those pressing matters on his back, a growing boy like him was sure to sleep like a log.

She made her way to the hall and absentmindedly drew back a curtain, letting fresh sunlight filter into the room, brightening its crevices. She sat and began to pick at some sweet bread and fruit, waiting for the arrival of the rest of her family.

Ned joined her first, strolling heavy-footed into the room. He slightly smiled when Catelyn met his eyes, and she did the same. As he pulled up a chair by her side, she leaned over to him, sparing a glance at the other occupants of the room.

“I have something to discuss at the meeting,” she whispered. “I just got wind of it this morning.”

He glanced at her and his mouth twisted into a small frown. “Of course.”

He piled an egg onto his plate along with some salted meat. They both ate in silence for a moment.

“It’s been quiet recently,” he observed. “I feel like something’s coming, but I can’t be sure whether it’ll be good or bad.”

She nodded. Catelyn had been feeling similarly recently. They had been endlessly planning, but nothing had actually happened yet. The letter had been the newest thing to come from the future in a while. 

“I just hope whatever it is, it won’t divide us,” she said. “That would be the last thing we need.”

Ned grunted in agreement, “I already feel like Jon is beginning to stray just a bit. I understand it must be hard for him. None of us truly know what it was like, but…” he sighed, “He must stay grounded. He must find a way.”

“He must,” she echoed.

The rest of the family had begun to trickle in, and the couple’s conversation was soon lost in the fray. Jon and Arya were talking animatedly, both shamelessly laughing. Bran seemed half-engaged in the same conversation, stopping his meal every now and then to comment on their discussion. Robb, the poor thing, still looked half-asleep, and Sansa was half-heartedly entertaining Rickon with a rattle.

What a wonderful family.

What a terrible fate.

She looked down and took a large gulp of water.

Soon enough, the younglings were sent off to lessons and her, Ned, Robb, and Jon were sitting in her husband’s solar. She unfolded the letter and passed it to Ned. His eyes scanned over it as Robb and Jon moved to read over his shoulder.

“It arrived at the ravenry this morning,” she remarked. “Must’ve gotten here last night. What do you think of it?”

“It’s… interesting,” said Ned. “Interesting indeed.” He reclined in his chair slightly and exhaled a puff of air.

“I can’t say I’ve heard of this Erwyn,” Jon said, thinking, “I’ve met a lot of people, though, and for someone to know my name and for me to not know their’s wouldn't be an uncommon occurrence at all.”

“I say we should go through with this,” she turned to look at her oldest son, “I mean, we have more to gain than to lose. And as Jon said, there is no real way to know this person and their intentions, but they seem reasonable enough, yea?”

Everyone seemed to nod. 

“We should be hesitant, of course. Can’t give away too much information. Might as well send a reply, though,” Ned said.

“Let me write the reply,” Jon said, perking up, “I can probably get more information using my influence. It also might do some good for him to see a familiar signature.”

“Your influence...” Robb muttered. ”Still crazy to me.”

Jon lightly chuckled and the two boys shared a look of kinship. 

“Speaking of myself - now that the matter with the letter is settled - I would also like to share a few things,” Jon continued. He paused, but went on at the silence.

“I didn’t sleep last night. At all. I was too busy reforging Lightbringer with Theon.”

Shock rippled throughout the room for a moment. _ What? _

Then, all of a sudden, Robb erupted, voicing everyone’s thoughts.

“WHAT? Reforge - Lightbringer - with _ Theon? _What in the seven went through your mind Snow?”

The person in question looked sheepishly around the room. 

“Not sure what I was thinking, really. Just sort of happened.”

“Does Theon know?” Robb asked, rubbing his hand over his face, and for a moment he looked eerily similar to Ned.

“About the future? No, I was vague. I think he went along with me just to figure out what I was hiding, to be honest. I kind of challenged him to craft a better relationship with us and Yara, too. You know how he can’t back down from challenges.”

Ned sighed, “Jon, you can’t be this impulsive. Please try to contain yourself sometimes.”

He looked down slightly and blushed. “Well -” he stammered, “Uhh… about that.”

“What happened?” Catelyn found herself asking.

“I injured my hand doing it. It’s all burnt. The Maester gave me some salve and bandages for it, but it might be out of commission for a week or two. Good thing it’s not my sword hand; that would be disastrous.” 

He pulled back his sleeve and revealed his wrapped hand. Even through the bandages, spots of blood and charred skin were seen. She sucked in a breath. That must’ve _ hurt. _

Not noticing their concern and disgust, or maybe just not caring about it, Jon unabashedly continued. 

“And since Lightbringer is now officially forged, and things have seemed to settle down here, I was thinking I’ll depart north within the next few days. The timing, it just feels right. It’s time.”

A sense of uneasiness thickened the atmosphere of the room. It made sense, Catelyn knew that. He had Lightbringer now, and that was all he really needed before confronting the larger part of his destiny. He had much more to do beyond the wall, anyway, and the work there would be much more tedious. But a part of her jolted with fear at the thought. Without Jon, the Starks would be flying by the seat of their pants. 

“Jon,” she started, “At least give us a plan for the future before you leave. I can’t fathom - this whole thing will be exponentially more difficult without you.”

She looked at Robb and Ned, to see their reactions. Robb looked slightly heart-broken, and her heart ached for him. He and Jon had always been close, and this whole business with the future had done nothing but strengthen their bond. His hand gripped the sleeve of Jon’s tunic with a vice grip. 

Ned also looked quite melancholy, but more accepting than Robb. He had this quiet resignation about his face. It was a hard, solemn look, and didn’t particularly look strange on his face. 

“At least let me convince you to tell Benjen of the situation,” he pleaded, his voice slightly breaking. She scooted her chair closer to his and placed a hand on his thigh. He glanced at her with a reassuring smile. 

“If he knows, he’ll be able to assist if things go terribly wrong. Hopefully, they won’t, but just in case.”

“Yes,” Robb agreed softly, “At least have that, Jon. I don’t want you to die out there. Your body would never be recovered.”

A pregnant pause filled the room. Jon looked at all of them, taking the time to look into everybody’s eyes. When his eyes met hers, she shivered a little bit. They were old eyes, hard eyes. 

Jon sighed, “Okay. I’ll send a letter. We’ll meet up at the Wall.”

The room collectively sighed.

“I’ll help,” Ned said, “He’ll be more likely to believe it that way.”

Jon put his hand on Robb’s fist and relaxed his brother’s grip. 

“In the North, I’ll try to move the free folk towards the Wall, if not below. That is, if they’ll be allowed below.”

“No pillaging, no raping, no killing,” Ned sharply said, “If they can handle that they could manage Northern civilization.”

“They’ll be able to,” Jon agreed. “They’ll probably even form some settlements up there. Rudimentary, most likely, but it would avoid inter-mingling and conflicts.”

“We can send some funding up towards the Wall,” Catelyn suggested, “It will help gain trust.”

Robb made a noise of agreement, “I suppose so. Not too much though, from what Jon tells me, they’re a people who pride themselves on their independence. Not sure how much help would be welcome.”

“Exactly,” Jon agreed. “Do be careful. And about the Lannisters, they should be arriving within a week. Make them comfortable here, and discuss with them what we have already discussed. Use your best judgment, considering I most likely won’t be here to judge for you. They can be intimidating, I know, but Tyrion has a sharp wit and Jaime’s tamer than what he would like you to believe.” He paused for a moment, and as a second thought, he added, “Don’t tell Jaime I said that.”

“I wish you would be there,” Robb said, “but I’m kind of looking forward to meeting these lions. They seem interesting.”  
“They _are_ interesting,” Jon responded, “But they do tend to get a little testy. I wouldn't mention the rest of their family or what happened with Aerys if I were you.”

Catelyn shivered thinking about her memories of Tywin and Cersei Lannister of her youth. Frightening and manipulative, they were.

“Anyway,” Jon continued, “I’ll hopefully be back from the North within a year or so. If you desperately are in need of anything from me, send a letter to Benjen. We can probably put something together where we can get in touch. Or…” he trailed off, “or I might be able to figure something else out.” Jon looked contemplative. 

Her and Ned shared a look, curious. As much as Jon told them, she believed there was just as much he was hiding from them, whether intentionally or not. 

“With that,” Ned announced with a finality in his voice, “I believe we can go on with our days. Jon, my son, tell us when you decide to leave.”  
He bowed his head, “Of course.”

Chairs scraped the rug, and the boys left the room, leaving her and Ned alone, sitting before the fire. 

“Let’s hope fate favors summer over winter,” she said with a tiny giggle, “and then we just might have a chance at winning.”

“Let’s hope,” Ned replied.

She got up to continue her daily duties.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! Sorry for the wait. Hope you had a not-too-miserable Valentine's day! Thank's for reading!


	13. Jaime III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime and Tyrion recuperate in a farming village and prepare to get back in the road.

The sun rose over the horizon in a brilliant smear of gold as Jaime and Tyrion tiredly rode their horse into a village. It was a farming village, by the looks of it, and judging by the crops and temperature, they had made it to the Northern section of the Neck. Perhaps farther. 

The sun warmed his face, and it was a welcome reprieve from the cold darkness of the night. The grass was dewy and green, and the mud had begun to dry into dirt, leaving only a few stray puddles. It had been a rough journey so far, and Jaime hoped the rest of it would go as smooth as possible.

After escaping the bounty hunters, they had ridden through the night in a random direction, trying to get as far from their captors as possible. The horse was tired, though, and so were Jaime and Tyrion, who hadn’t gotten a wink of sleep the past night. As dawn broke across the land, he could feel his eyes drooping and the horse’s sluggish movements beneath him. They were going to have to stop to rest up, and maybe get another horse too, so the poor horse they had currently didn’t need to carry two people all the way up north. 

As they rode into the main settlements, the villagers seemed to be starting their day. As they rode past on the horse, the villagers stared unabashedly at Jaime and Tyrion. Their eyes followed their every movement. Jaime turned his eyes downwards and stopped the horse, looking around.

Soon enough, a woman came up to them. She was slightly corpulent, and wore a long unflattering gray and brown dress. The brown, though, could’ve easily come from the mud and horse manure which covered the place instead of the actual dyed fabric. 

“Who are ya?” She asked, the timbre of her voice rough and abrupt, “What do ya want here, and why do ya look like you just spent the night in a pig’s pen?”

“Why do _ you _look like you just-” Tyrion started to mumble under his breath, but Jaime cut him off. The bad graces of this woman was one of the last things they needed at the moment. 

“Ma’am, we’re terribly sorry for the inconvenience, but we were recently captured by some bandits, you see, and was hoping we could rest and recuperate here; perhaps buy another horse while we’re at it. We have some place to be, but can’t get there in the state we’re currently in.” Jaime tried to be courteous and polite in hopes of winning the woman over, but she coldly stared at him with mud-brown eyes, examining them. Jaime suddenly felt uncomfortable and bare.

He nudged Tyrion with his elbow.

“Ah! Yes. Please ma’am, we are in dire need. Can you please point us to an inn, perhaps, or a place of lodging. We will pay with whatever means we have. Which, well, unfortunately isn’t much, but still...” Tyrion added, smiling sheepishly. She stared at him even longer, gazing at his short and stocky form with criticism and maybe a little disgust. Jaime turned the horse so Tyrion was half hidden behind his form.

“You have names?” Her pudgy face twisted into what might’ve been a smile. A brief flash of hope surged within Jaime.

“Yes, ma’am. I am… I am James, and this is my brother, erm, Tyr.” He winced as he stumbled over his words.

“James and Tyr, huh?” She laughed, but to Jaime it sounded more akin to the sound a person made when they were being choked. “Well, I guess you two could stay at my place ‘till you’re all ready for the road again.” Her face suddenly turned serious. “As payment, you’ll work in my fields. The rice is ready to harvest. Maybe then, if you do a good enough job, you’ll be able to buy yourselves a mare.”

Jaime sighed, “Oh, thank you, ma’am-”

“No callin’ me ma’am. We don’t do that here. Call me Winnie, everyone else does.”

“Thank you, Winnie,” Tyrion’s voice said from behind Jaime, slightly muffled and with barely concealed chuckles. 

“We are indebted,” Jaime bowed his head, “If you may, lead me to where I can give this horse some rest.”

As Winnie turned and walked, her skirts skimmed the mud and swayed back and forth like a pendulum. Jaime quickly dismounted the horse, and helped Tyrion off as well. They scurried after the woman, gently leading the horse.

“This town don’t get many visitors,” she explained, “You two are the first in a long time.”

They approached a modest wooden house. It was leaning to the side, Jaime noticed, and the roof was patchy. 

“This is it.” Winnie said, throwing her arms in the air, “The horse could be tied to that post there” - she pointed to a rotting wooden rod sticking out of the mud near the door- “and you two could get to work in the fields as soon as possible. It’s already drained for you. I would give you some sickles, but my boys - who will be joining you two later - will need them. Your sort carries around swords and knives, yea?”  
Before Jaime could answer she continued.

“Yea, yea. I’ve seen your sort with your fancy swords before, prancing all over the place. ‘Look at me, I’ve got a sword!’” she mimicked. “Yea well, if you’re not planning to kill anybody with it soon might as well cut rice paddies with it, eh?”

“We, uh, the bandits actually took our weapons,” Tyrion stammered. Jaime couldn’t blame him. If he wasn’t as used to the blunt vernacular of the free folk he would have been just as taken aback by this woman . She paused.

“Oh. Ah… go run over next door then. Tell Rick - old guy with a lisp and scraggly beard - that Winnie needs his sickles. And _ don’t _ let him tell you he needs them! That old man hasn’t worked a day in the fields for twenty years!”

“Ok then…” Tyrion started hesitantly.

“Thank you again ma’am… Winne. We’ll do our best.” The words were forced and Jaime could only hope they didn’t sound overwhelmingly so.

She scoffed at the brothers, “You better! Anyway, the day don’t wait for your lazy asses. We’re losing time as it is. My boys will be out to help in a bit.” 

She waddled into the house and shut the door behind her, leaving Jaime and Tyrion at a loss.

Despite living through the Long Night and having some idea of how agriculture works, Jaime had never actually worked to harvest crops before. It was, admittingly, a little daunting. There wasn’t much he hadn’t done at his age, and those things, usually, someone like him would have no need to do. Like laboring in fields. He, also, had no experience specifically with rice whatsoever.

He clenched his injured hand a few times, feeling an ache and a tightness in the movement. That would hinder him even more.

“Well,” Tyrion began, “are you ready to work peasant-style, brother?”

Jaime grunted in exhaustion.

They shared a look. Both of them were practically dead on their feet, and a day of hard work would not help ameliorate that. But they had to do it, because getting another horse and more supplies was their only hope of getting to Winterfell in a timely and safe manner. And soon enough their father would start to wonder why they weren’t at Winterfell yet, and subsequently send out a search party. Nobody wanted that. 

_Jon is probably concerned, _ Jaime fleetingly thought. Without his brother to prove his sanity, Jaime admitted he would go practically crazy in loneliness after living decades that hadn’t happened yet. The man (well, boy at this point in time) was probably looking forward to some understanding companionship. Someone to tell his deeper thoughts and memories too.

He snapped back the reality when a booming voice echoed from within the house along with an unidentifiable crash.

“I said, GET TO WORK!”

They quickly made their way next door.

Winnie was right under all accounts when it came to old man Rick. He was old, spoke with a lisp, and insisted adamantly that he needed his sickles to work in his own field. Jaime frequently found himself grimacing as they negotiated with the man. Eventually, he was coaxed into handing over a pair of sickles.

The sickle felt heavy in his left hand (for it still pained him to make a fist in his right hand) and the splintery wood scraped against his palm. They made their way to Winnie’s property, and stood for a moment gazing out into the rice fields.

The field was marshy but drained from its flooding. And, maybe due to the climate, it looked unlike others Jaime had seen. It harvested a different kind of rice, maybe. The entire landscape seemed to be a muted brown color instead of the rich green Jaime associated rice fields with under normal circumstances. The landscape was sloshy and malleable, and stretched into the horizon. Jaime wished for the crisp colors of Casterly Rock, or even the clear and sharp colors of Winterfell. Anything other than grueling labor in a boring environment.

Tyrion made a groaning noise as he bent over and began to roll his pants up to his knees.

“We,” he said, “are going to be filthy by the end of this.”

Jaime tilted his head in acknowledgment, “You’ve got that right, brother.” He copied his brother’s movements.

The hesitantly waded out into the field. Jaime held the sickle with both hands. He’d seen people do harvests like this before, but he had never been the once actually doing the work. He vaguely remembered the slashing movements he’d witnessed, but felt like a moron when he tried to copy them.

A few stalks sliced into the air and pitifully fell to the ground. He groaned and crouched down. Maybe getting lower would help. Tyrion, the asshole, was gleefully laughing at the disadvantage Jaime’s height put him at. His brother swang the sickle with skill, and a few bundles already were piled at his feet. It was admittingly impressive.

Jaime, not for the first time, wondered how Tyrion would fare with a sword or dagger. It would certainly help if he knew how to properly defend himself in case of an emergency. Tyrion had been denied swordsmanship lessons as a child, and Jaime, the golden son, was always encouraged to practice with his sword as often as possible. And, well, he made a living out of it as a knight. Tyrion would’ve thrived in any learning condition though, Jaime thought. Perhaps, once they got some coin, Jaime would purchase him a dagger and teach him how to fight.

For then, though, he let Tyrion laughingly instruct him through a day’s worth of back-breaking labor.

* * *

That night, the two brothers huddled together in a pile of hay, trying to keep warm. They were used to cold just as much as they were used to poor sleeping conditions, but their younger bodies weren’t. Mentally, it was different too because, in this budding reality, the plan was to never _ have _ to get used to those sorts of things. Jaime had been blinded by the sun and gleaming gold of nobility that a hard life seemed out of reach this time around. It was dancing on the horizon, maybe; there, but not quite here, and it made Jaime forget just how fortunate he was to not only have a second chance to right things, but to be born into wealth.

The hay was scratchy and damp at places, and the shack around them offered little reprieve from the gusty winds. He grit his teeth, shifted, and closed his eyes, begging for sleep to bring him safely to the sunny morning.

His thoughts quickly turned elsewhere.

Winnie was originally going to pay them through food and shelter, but her sons (two large blokes by the names of Klaus and Vynce) convinced her to add a little coin in there as well. Believe it or not, the woman was sitting on a lot of coin, left over from her late husband. He hated bandits, apparently, and giving some “poor victims of the suckers some fucking coin might as well do good in his memory, eh Ma?”

Jaime absentmindedly thanked the dead man for his hatred of bandits. It sure benefitted them.

He predicted they should stay at Winnie’s for a few days more. It would give them enough time to rest, work enough for funds for a horse, and also give some time for Jaime’s hand to heal. He rubbed his thumb, contemplative. Even though the injury was a right bugger when it came to the rice harvest, it might do some good to start training his left hand. Being ambidextrous on the battlefield was the best weapon.

He looked over at Tyrion, who had managed to fall asleep. From straight up exhaustion, probably. He shifted as minutely and as quietly as possible, trying not to jostle his brother. His thoughts made him remember: he needed to split his thumb.

The materials on hand were less than ideal, but they would have to do. His eyes strained in the darkness as he scanned the ground and walls of the shack. It was probably used as a tool shed at one point, but had fallen into disrepair after Winnie’s family realized that they, in fact, did not have enough tools to need an entire shed to house them. Jaime hoped some materials could’ve been left forgotten, and would help in the crafting of his makeshift split.

Unfortunately not finding anything, he picked up a large splinter from the ground, deciding that it would have to do. His left hand skimmed the fabric of his tunic, hating how he would need to rip the only clothes he had in order for his finger to heal properly. With slight hesitation, he ripped a thin strip from the bottom.

Usually, during the Long Night, if there was no maester nearby, you would have a mate do temporary medical care for you. Many times Jon patched him up and he did the same for the younger man. Treating yourself left greater room for hasty mistakes and a poor job, especially when you had to do it with your nondominant hand. Jaime was left without a choice at the moment, though, not wanting to wake his little brother from his much needed rest.

He pressed the splinter to the back of this thumb before taking it away with a frown. It would be sure to rub in the fields, and he didn’t fancy tweezing small fragments of wood out of his thumb every night. Wincing, he decided to tear just a little more of his shirt to use as padding.

As he worked in crafting his splint, he took a few deep breaths and felt his eyelids grow heavy. Adrenaline, although great for temporary energy, couldn’t keep him up for two days and nights straight. 

He spared a thought to Jon, and the free folk he gave a chance to. That man had a good heart, a good morality. Jaime wondered about the debate between nature and nurture. There was a man who had done other’s bidding his entire life, worked tirelessly for a cause no one believed in, and had continuously broken barriers Westeros and the land beyond the Wall had ingrained into their very society. Did his humble childhood contribute to that? Or was it his royal blood? The Silver Prince was known to be a kind man, a quiet man, much like Jon. Excluding the slight hysteria over prophecy, that was. And Ned Stark was much the same. But Jaime couldn't help but think there was something about Jon inherently, on a cellular level, which tied him to the fight against the Long Night and its eventual outcome.

Jon was a different man based on his environment. He was outgoing, free, with the wildlings. He was political and stoic with his army. He was caring with his family, and protective of those he loved. Jaime wished he could be like that. Instead, everywhere he went he had the same attitude, the same judgments. It was tiring, to be a man like him.

_ Yes, _ he thought, _ quite tiring. _

Jaime drifted off into fitful sleep.

* * *

The next few days were a blur for the brothers. He had to give it to farmers - labouring in the fields was more of a workout than Jaime ever got training to be a knight. But after the second day or so, Winnie seemed to have a softening of the heart. She no longer had them working sunrise to sundown, and even supplied them with new clothing free of charge. It was incredibly nice to wear clean clothes, even if they weren’t his own. His thumb was healing in its splint as his left hand simultaneously grew stronger, and, overall, things were looking up.

One early afternoon, the third day after their arrival at Winnie’s, Jaime and Tyrion were lazily lounging after their work for the day. The entire field was almost harvested, and their time there was coming to a close along with it. The sun beat strongly upon the tops of their heads but nevertheless a cool wind blew, rippling the rice stalks and tearing leaves from the trees.

Jaime watched absentmindedly as a leaf tore off the tree above him and danced in the wind, spinning and floating. He had gotten so used to business, both in this timeline and in the Long Night one, that he hardly knew what to do with himself in precious moments of downtime such as this one. Jaime was, dare he say it, bored. 

“I’m bored.” He announced, “Tyrion, I’m _ bored. _”

Tyrion shook his head, “Appreciate it while you can, brother. In a few months time you’ll be longing for such boredom.”

“In a few months time,” Jaime corrected, “we’ll be wishing we prepared more instead of sitting around on our asses.”

Tyrion looked at Jaime, eyebrows raised, “What do you suppose we do to prepare then, Jaime?” 

Jaime smirked at him and Tyrion hissed through his teeth, hastily taking back his words. “Actually, nevermind I said that. Let’s just pretend we have been sitting in silence. Nice… quiet…. silence.”

“Tyrion…” Jaime started.

“Jaime…” Tyrion echoed back.

“I know exactly what we should be doing, Tyrion”

“Ugh, I know you do.”

“Then we should be doing it, eh?”

“No. Not exactly. We _ should _ be enjoying rest and summer while it lasts. Sitting right here in the sun.”

Jaime laughed, “Well, we’ll still be in the sun! Get up, brother, I’m going to teach you how to defend yourself.”

“Wha-” Tyrion sputtered as Jaime pulled him to a standing position.

“Get up, I said!” Jaime took a glance at the branches of the tree that were sitting beneath before biting his lip.

_ I would prefer steel, _ he thought, _ but wood will have to do. _

With a bounding leap, he started to climb the tree, hands pressing against the rough bark. Tyrion watched on, a slightly pained expression on his face. Finally he reached what he was looking for. It was a fallen branch, still tangled in the tree from when it fell. He harshly pulled at it, and it came free and tumbled towards the ground, hitting the dirt with a dull _ thud. _ Jaime quickly climbed back down and picked up the branch, laughing.

“Our weapons!” He said gesturing to the branch.

Tyrion shook his head and put his hands in his pockets.

Jaime grabbed a kitchen knife Winnie had lent him and whittled the bark off the branch, smoothing it out into a wooden rod. Then, he placed one end on a stone nearby, and rested the other gently on the ground. He scanned the branch, trying to gage where he should break it so he would have a longer piece and Tyrion would have a shorter one. Deciding, Jaime jumped on the branch with both feet and it snapped with a booming _ crack _. One end of the branch catapulted into the air and Jaime, as calm as ever, caught the branch deftly with his left hand and mockingly bowed at Tyrion, who was looking on with mild disbelief. 

“The smaller one’s for you,” he said unhelpfully.

“When is it not?” Tyrion replied, but he still took the wood in hand, testing its weight.

“In a day or so,” Jaime began, “we shall leave this village to go on straight to Winterfell. This time, it would be quite nice if we weren’t caught by bounty hunters. So I, Ser Jaime Lannister, will take it upon myself to teach you, Tyrion Lannister, how to kill a bastard if needed.” He grinned.

“Much appreciated,” said Tyrion wryly.

“Of course,” Jaime replied cheekily.

Until Winnie called them in roughly for their lukewarm supper, they practiced nonstop amongst playful banter and fighting. He was right: given the opportunity, Tyrion thrived in just about anything. 

Part of Jaime couldn’t wait to make it to Winterfell even if it meant the Long Night was at hand. They’d be more useful there, and could show off their growth from not only what the rest of the world thought was a year ago (although it had been more than a decade for the two brothers) but from when they left the South to start journeying North. 

_ And any god out there knows, _ he thought, _ we’ve all got a lot more growing to do. _

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wowee. Has it really been more than a month? Sorry! 
> 
> On another note, please stay safe out there! Try to social distance and remember to wash your hands regularly. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! We can get through the boredom together!


	14. Ned II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ned ponders the future and gets a reply from Skagos.

**Ned II**

Despite being relatively content with the life he was leading, a part of Ned still sometimes yearned to live the life of the second son. It would sure be easier.

Now, he wasn’t sure about the whole concept of destiny, but even if the whole debacle with Jon still happened if Brandon was Lord of Winterfell, and Lyanna was still alive, he could deflect a lot of the problems onto the two aforementioned siblings. But unfortunately, he had no such luxuries and had to do the bulk of the work himself. Jon was still physically young and couldn’t make much changes (the case was the same with his heir), and his lady wife was quite busy with her affairs regarding Jon on her own. Really, though, he just wanted a break.

The scheming was endless. Every hour of his day was filled with strategy and problem-solving. All of it gave him awful headaches. Nevertheless, he persevered. The fate of the entirety of Westeros was partly on his hands, after all.

Currently, Ned was planning for the future- the more distant future, that was. The events as of late made him realize that his children will not always be as young and burden free as they were currently. Jon was always a stoic and sullen boy, but this new Jon, this battle-hardened Jon, made his heart heavy. He never got to see the boy grow up normally. He went from a serious but playful boy to an unrecognizable man in a child’s body. It was unnerving. He thought back to his boyhood- his fostering, his parents, his siblings. He was naive then; he thought he would sail through life with little worries. He had no idea of the future, or, perhaps, had no care of it. He will not let his children make the same mistakes. He will prepare them not only in body and in mind, but lay their tentative future ahead of them. The last thing they needed in this situation was uncertainty, so he made it his mission to cement at least something in the future.

Hence, he was planning to rebuild Moat Cailan and Queensgate. Not only would the fortifications of the two structures benefit them come conflict with the South or the Long Night, but, perhaps, in the future they could be keeps of Bran and Rickon. Assuming, of course, that Robb would be Lord of Winterfell, Sansa and Arya would be with their husbands (or inhabitants of Winterfell if the whole marriage thing goes sourly for them this time around as well) and Jon would either take the responsibility as the forefather of a new Targaryen Dynasty on the Iron Throne or drop all responsibility and live an unattached life of freedom where the politics of Westeros won’t reach him. From what he’s been learning of Jon, it could very well go either way. 

Rebuilding the two aforementioned structures, though, was quite a tedious task. Not only was a lot of people, coin, and resources needed to lift the project off the ground and to keep it running, but he needed to provide various explanations to those who questioned his motives. A lot of Ned’s loyal bannermen knew the North’s relationship with the South was now hesitant at best, and that he had several son’s, but Queensgate was a whole other issue. His bannermen, except the Skagosi, just couldn’t understand why he would choose to rebuild it over all other keeps. 

Ned had visited Queensgate once, and he understood their sentiment. It’s ruins were intertwined with a palpable hauntedness, a chill of isolation and ages past. It was in the middle of nowhere, and the frigid climate made self-sufficiency hard. But Ned believed he was rebuilding it far enough in advance that he could make something out of it. Add some warmth to the ruins.

On another note, he had sent representatives of his to Braavos to broker trade deals. If there was one thing they couldn’t afford to lose, it was a steady supply of food. They were going in blind, though. The North had little to do with Essos and their affairs, so Ned and other Northmen had no clue what they had to offer that the Braavosi would be interested in. Jon was little help; all he knew of Braavos was from Arya, and even then he wasn’t sure how focused Arya was on their economy. The North might not even have anything at all to offer the wealthy city, so he made sure to send his most persuasive diplomats.

He was startled out of his reverie from a resounding knock on the door of his solar.

“Lord Stark,” he heard, “Lord Magnar is here to see you.”

Ah, yes. He was expecting that around today, wasn’t he?

“I’ll be down in a minute. Please direct Lord Magnar to the sitting room, please.”

He collected various papers he was looking over and piled them onto his desk. When he sent the letter to Skagos, he wasn’t expecting a reply in person, but the Skagosi Lords made it quite clear that this was a matter to be discussed in person. They sent Lord Magnar and, apparently, he had already arrived.

He walked to where he assumed one of the servants brought the Lord, and thought while he did. He, like his fathers before him, left Skagos to their own devices for the most part. They had their own culture, religion, lifestyle, and despite officially being part of the North, it was seemingly only in name. He knew many other people who looked down upon the Stoneborn, calling them “Skaggs,” and has heard many rumors about foul practices such as human sacrifice and cannibalism, but after learning more about the  wildings free folk from Jon, he dismissed the rumors as merely people making fun of an unknown and, for many, unfathomable way of life.

He had debated letting Jon sit in upon this meeting, because the boy seemed to have a certain tender kinship with the free folk, and he suspected it would be the same with the Skagosi. Jon honored the ways of the First Men, and took care learning the culture of the lands near and beyond the Wall. He thought Lord Magnar would appreciate that. But, however, he had quickly determined it was all too suspicious and dismissed the thought from his mind.

Soon enough, he found himself arriving at his destination. He politely knocked once on the door before opening it.

“Lord Stark,” the gruff voice of Lord Magnar addressed while he stood up from his seat to awkwardly bow, “A, ah… a pleasure.”

Lord Magnar was a giant man, reminding him vaguely of Greatjon Umber. He had a long, dark and scraggly beard and crooked teeth. He was clad various furs, only making him look even more robust.

“Of course, Lord Magnar.” Ned said, “On the grounds of the intimate conversation I am sure we are going to have in just a moment, I find it fitting that you call me Ned.”

“I- uh, I’m Godric then.”

There was a small silence.

“Please don’t speak as, err, flowery as you just did. I’m a blunt person, my Lord- Ned, and I would prefer to skip the pleasantries and get straight to what I travelled all this way for.” He gave an embarrassed smile.

“Ok then,” Ned said, slightly taken aback, “Have a seat and we’ll get started.”

They both sat, chairs creaking.

“Last I checked,” Godric began, “You and the King were childhood mates who went to war together. willy-nilly. What happened?”

Ned drew in a breath, debating his answer. “Robert is no longer the boy I knew in youth.” He decided on, “And Stark’s don’t fare well in the South, either.”

Godric nodded, face hard. “And what of the Others? The Watch lives in fear of them for centuries and only now you are learning of them and deciding they are a substantial threat?” His voice was laced with judgment.

“Well, Benjen- my brother-”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. He wrote to you. I received your letter, y’know. I’m not looking for that bullshit explanation. That entire letter was bullshit. I’m smart, I saw through it. Dragonglass, Others, secession. Ned, for some reason that just  _ escapes _ me, you’re preparing for the Long Night!”

Ned’s jaw flew open in shock.

“This summer… it’s already lasted far too long.” He began in a quieter tone, “My people have been preparing for years already. We have a… a soothsayer, so to speak. She gets visions of the future. She insisted I come to talk to you in person; I was originally planning to just send a raven.”

Ned took a few deep breaths, trying to craft a response, but Godric kept on talking before he could get his thoughts together.

“You see, she sees not one, but two hesitant futures. One with a barely reachable light at the end of a tunnel, and that ends in bloodshed and a blast of magic. The second one… she says it already happened. She denied me more information on the subject and told me to talk to you about it. So, Ned, what is she talking about? And don't you dare lie to me this time.”

Ned’s hand twitched. He looked down, not exactly meeting Godric’s eyes. “My son- my bastard son- Jon, he’s seen that future. Not in dreams, but in real life. That blast of magic your soothsayer described- it was him and a few others being rocketed back in time.”

Godric looked at him, his bushy eyebrows raised high on his forehead.

“The Long Night ended in disaster for them. They were ill-prepared, not knowledgeable enough, and not nearly as careful as they should’ve been. He’s trying to prevent that outcome now, change the future and win the Long Night.”

Ned shifted and tried to gauge Godric’s reaction.

“Foolish boy.” He grunted, “You can’t change the future, no matter how hard you try.”

“How are you sure of that?” Ned asked, feeling a tinge of doubt spread through him.

“Do you think it hasn’t all been tried before?” He incredulously laughed. “There are stories passed down generation to generation. Cautionary tales. Destiny is a fickle lady, is the theme in almost all of them, if you try to mess with her plan, things end up going even worse than they were originally going to go.”

“But, but what if this  _ is _ her plan? Jon says there’s a prophecy. Azor Ahai. What if this was written into the folds of time millennials before the idea even popped into his head?”

Again, Ned wasn’t really sure about the whole concept of destiny. But Godric seemed to be hell-bent on the idea.

“Then,” he replied, “ I wish your son luck. I would like to speak with him.”

“Jon.” Ned spluttered, “You wish to speak with Jon?”

“That is what I said, isn’t it?”

“Why?”

“Because I want to see him for myself.” He answered tersely, “If he really is this ‘Azor Ahai,’ I want to size him up.”

Ned licked his lips. On one hand, Godric wouldn’t be able to deny that there was something different, special about Jon. On the other hand, he could take it the wrong way and they’d have to go to Dragonstone for dragonglass which was far from a favorable option.

He got up, dusting his trousers lightly. “Wayne,” he called out to a servant, “fetch Jon for me.”

A muffled “Yes m’lord” was heard from beyond the door.

“Jon, he, um, I introduced him as my bastard son,” Ned began hesitantly. His palms started to sweat. If this went badly, it would be a deadly mistake. But he needed to grow the trust between them.

“Mhm,” grunted Godric in acknowledgment.

Ned twiddled his thumbs, his heart beating erratically. “What I say does not leave this room. Vow it on the lives of you and your family.”

Godric looked taken aback. “I- yes, I vow it.”

“Jon, he isn't my bastard son like the world believes him to be. He, truly, is my nephew.” He hated the shakiness of his voice.

“Your nephew?” Godric said, “But that means… Is he Brandon’s bastard?”

“No, no.” Ned replied, “Think again. Remember: the prophecy of Azor Ahai.”

“By the gods,” Godric exclaimed in shock, “he’s Rhaegar Targaryen’s bastard! With your sister!”

“Their trueborn son,” Ned corrected, “They were secretly married in Dorne. Jon, or should I refer to him by his given name Jaehaerys, is quite literally a prince by birth as well. He’s always been special, and always will be.”

Godric shook his head and ran his fingers through his busy beard. “By the gods…” he muttered a few times in shock.

A knock sounded from the door.

“Jon, come in please.” Ned said, “Close the door behind you.”

Jon stepped in, looking like he came straight from his swordsmanship lessons. A black streak of his hair stuck to his forehead from sweat. His dark eyes flitted to Godric then back at Ned, questioning. They gleamed with something partly-hidden and unrecognizable, though. Curiosity or slight amusement, perhaps.

“He knows, Jon.” Ned said, “About the Long Night, your parentage.”

Jon’s eyebrows raised, “My parentage? Why?”

“Because I doubted I could keep it a secret long. Jon, may I introduce you to Lord Godric Magnar-”

“Of Skagos. Yes. I know.” He turned to Godric and paused for a second, “I somewhat knew you. During the Long Night, that is. You fought valiantly. That war axe of yours was genuinely frightening.”

Godric was left speechless, his mouth opening and closing like a fish. “I- you- you really are back from the Long Night. And… the war axe? Really? I haven’t broken that out in over a decade!” 

“Well, you end up chopping up wights with it.”

“Godric here,” Ned started, “says that they have a soothsayer on Skagos, who saw the Long Night you lived through. Also said that this timeline has a barely reachable light at the end of the tunnel.”

“Really? This soothsayer, she or he uses greensight? I don’t just trust people who have visions willy-nilly. There was a red priestess in the other timeline named Melisandre who saw visions in the flames. I’m sure everyone who ever trusted her was left regretting it.” Jon took a few slow steps forward and pulled up a chair, sitting down.

“Yes.” Gordic answered, “Given to her by the gods, it was. On Skagos we consult her before asking any big decisions.”

“You shouldn’t.” Jon’s voice was hard, “Visions don’t strictly come true. They can lead you down false paths, could cause preventable issues.”

“Well, yes. We don’t heed her every command the second she speaks. Ned here tells me you wish to change the future. I hope the gods are on your side, lad, or else you’re in for a rude awakening.”

“I hope so too.” Jon’s voice was oddly quiet.

Ned felt like he was out of place. Godric, despite not yet living through the Long Night this time around, had a vague but deep understanding of the Long Night and what it entailed. Same with Jon. Ned’s knowledge, however, only skimmed the surface of a broad and multi-layered chasm of information.

“I’m sorry,” he interjected, “but the dragonglass…”

Godric chuckles, “I’ll get piles of it to you, Ned. Don’t you worry about that.”

A small pause filled the room.

“Well,” Godric continued, “If we’re done then, I would like to stay the night, Ned, if that’s alright with you.”

“Of course. Wayne, the servant outside the door, will lead you to your quarters for the night if you ask him.”

Godric got up and lumbered towards the door, clutching his leather rucksack tightly.

“Wait!” Jon called out. “Godric, have you heard anything from the Night Watch? Eastwatch-by-the-sea, perhaps? They’re right across the bay from Skagos’s western shore, if my memory serves correct.”

“The Watch? Besides basic trade we don’t really communicate much with the brothers. Sorry, kid. Might want to build up the Watch, though. Wouldn’t be bad to stock up the only thing standing between the Others and Westeros. Anyway, farewell for now.” He left the room, asking Wayne where to go.

“That’s exactly what I was thinking,” murmurd Jon.

“Nobody wants to pledge the black, though.” Ned said, “Over the years it’s become a punishment, something to be afraid of.”

It was a shame, really. It used to be an honorable feat; a Northern knighthood or sorts. He admired Benjen for joining the force, and wished more boys would purposely take the vow. Only then would it regain its honor and reputation.

“I’ve been thinking, father.” Jon started tentatively, “About the Watch.”

Ned hummed, “Go on.”

“Let’s face it: it’s not what it used to be.”

“Not at all,” Ned agreed, thinking back to his earlier thoughts.

“If we were to, say, make new vows, temporary vows, wouldn’t more people be interested in joining?”

“Temporary vows? So they only pledge for a selected amount of time?” The idea sounded crazy, but appealing all the same.

“Yes, exactly. It could become a thing, a trend. Boys on the cusp of manhood could spend a year in the Watch, learning independence, discipline, and duty. And celibacy for only that long. I think it could work. It’ll maybe get a few more honorable life-long members as well, after they witness what Wall is really keeping out of Westeros.”

Ned pondered it, thinking hard. “The Night’s Watch is an age old organization, and I’m not sure if the old members of the Watch from its hay day will appreciate it’s downgrade very much. This… organization will probably have to go under another name. Serving the same purpose, of course.”

“The Crows, perhaps.” Jon said, smiling, “That would be a good name.”

Ned gave the boy a questioning look, but he just shrugged in return. Ned finally replied after a small silence. “It would take time. First, the Lord Commander would have to be notified and approve it. Then, well, we’d have to spread the word. Recruit.”

“A perfect job for Robb to pick up.” Jon said, “He can organize this, get some responsibility under his belt. He’s nearly a man, father. Theory in the classroom will only get him so far.”

Jon was correct in that notion, but to be honest, Ned wasn’t sure if Robb was ready for the responsibility. He apparently did splendidly with war strategy, but the organization of a campaign for a provisional Night’s Watch might be a little out of his ballpark. He would need supervision.

“I’ll talk to Catelyn about it,” he decided to say. She’d know what to do.

“That’s all I ask.” Jon said. He leaned forward slightly, his elbows resting on his knees, “That soothsayer Godric spoke of- do you think there’s anyway I could look into that?”

Slightly startled by the abrupt change in subject, Ned took a moment to reply. “Godric will be staying the night. You or I can ask for her name. Maybe then we can ask around to see if anyone has heard anything. Why do you ask?”

“People who sell their gifts for free to nobility are not to be trusted. Often, ulterior motives are present.”

“Sounds like you have a story behind that notion,” Ned remarked with a small smirk. Jon shot him a lighthearted glare.

“I’ll ask him in the morning before he heads out.” Ned concluded, “Then you can commence your sleuth work. How does that sound?”

“Right as rain to me.”

“Good. Now go back to Ser Rodrik. I’m sure he, Robb, and Theon are missing your gloating.” He shooed Jon out the door playfully.

“I only gloat because I’m better than them! And that’s only to Robb and Theon. I’m not better than Ser Rodrik yet.  _ Yet. _ When I come back from beyond the Wall I’ll show all of you my skills. They’re going to increase by miles!”

“Sure they are.” Ned agreed, “Now go on. Shoo."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys we can get through this together! Please social distance and stay healthy. If you have any questions, comments or suggestions about the story, please comment down below! I’m in this for the long run (I have this book planned out and there’s going to have to be at least one more after to conclude the overall story) so stick with me through sporadic hiatuses!
> 
> Again, stay healthy out there.


	15. Jon V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon’s on the road.

_ Once upon a time, there was a man with no name.  _

_ Born in a blizzard, cold ran through his veins and his heart was made of ice. _

_ He wasn’t named because, as his people saw it, the very fundamentals of nature ensured that the weak were taken care of before they became burdens on the strong. And why name someone who wouldn’t live to see more than a few years anyway? _

_ But Mother Nature was also cruel, and she prolonged his pain. It wasn’t until he was around five years old that his mother deemed that Nature was taking too long to whisk him away into the hilly night, so she took care of matters herself. One night she picked up this nameless boy, walked miles away, placed him into the snow, and left. By the time the boy awoke, blue with frostbite, the wind and fresh snow had covered her footprints, and he was left all alone. _

_ Lacking the care of his parents, this boy was able to fend for himself in the wilderness better than a pampered child would have been. After wandering aimlessly through the gales for a day or so, his stomach panging with hunger, he found a cave, lit a rudimentary fire, and was able to crudely kill a bat and rip the meat off its bones.  _

_ And so started a lifestyle. _

_ This boy grew, and so did his skill. Long winter nights became his haven. The wind whispered secrets into his ear and his feet hardly ever left footprints in the snow. He made spears out of wood and clothing out of furs, ate the rubbery meat of mammals and drank the snow straight out of the sky.  _

_ He used no words, having not been in contact with a fellow human since he was five. Nothing at all came through his lips but the crunch of snow and the howling of the wind, the grunts of exertion and the guttural scream of agonizing pain. _

_ Then, one day, over a decade since Mother Nature was destined to kill this man off, he was hunting in the forest when Destiny decided to force her will upon him. _

_ His people would come to call them “children of the forest,” even though this species was very much older than theirs were. They were grey little things, faces rounded and eyes wide. Nearly feral, too, but who was the man to complain. He was feral as well. _

_ These “children” abused him that day in the forest. They ran at inhumanly speeds and screeched shrill battle cries. Even with his spear, the man was easily defeated. When he woke, stripped and aching, a “child” stood peering over him. Even to the man, who knew no language but that of Winter, the “child’s” language was queer. It sounded like the splintering of glass, like a sonic whistle. Like water running in a brook, and the crackle of fire.  _

_ The man with no name couldn't understand, so the “child” made him. It was like the information was phased into his mind, a series of vague images and feelings that all culminated into one bone-chilling message: _

_ Your people are destroying our home, so we will use you to destroy them. _

_ The man knew naught of his people, only remembering the feeling of loss and betrayal when his mom left him to Mother Nature’s forces that fateful night. But he had no words to say this, so nothing went said.  _

_ He struggled, sure, fear radiated off of him. The children, at least, usually characterized by outsiders as cold and unsympathetic, had the pity to make the process quick. _

_ A dragonglass dagger pierced his icy heart, all of the emotion he might’ve had or grown into drained out of his body, and his eyes turned an electric blue. _

_ And this, quite simply, was how a nameless boy became the Night King. _

Before he had left Winterfell once and for all, Jon had painstakingly spent hours on end in Winterfell’s library, pouring over the books like they held the secrets to life in them. Jon was lucky, and languages were one of the only academic things that came second nature to him, but even with that attribute the language of the First Men was incredibly tricky and hard to translate. He saw some similarities with the free folk tribal languages, but unfortunately they didn’t extend very far. Nevertheless, Jon was glad he did all that work. The tome’s translation was enlightening. Written by a First Man, it provided insight to the religion, culture, and, most importantly, the lore of the Night King and the Children of the Forest. 

It was chilling. In all the years he had been preparing to fight the Night King only now he was realizing there was a man beneath the ice. Or, there used to be one. The empathetic part of his heart panged at the thought. But, of course, even Jon doesn’t know if the tome’s content is true or not. He doesn’t know exactly when it was written, so it could’ve technically been hundreds of years after the Night King’s turning. 

Both the books of Asshai and the tome of the First Men weighed heavily in his rucksack. It was a gamble, bringing them with their extra weight, but he was glad he did. The nights were long and he could rarely sleep without being plagued by nightmares. The tedious translations were a welcome distraction.

He had departed from Winterfell a day ago now, with only a horse, the clothes on his back, Lightbringer, a bow and arrow that had seen better days, and his rucksack which contained the tomes, a bit of dried food, a water skin, and an extra pair of pants. He was waved off with little fanfare, Robb and his father waking in the middle of the night to wish him good luck. The rest of Winterfell was being kept in the dark, including his little siblings. His heart felt a little heavy at that, but all would be explained to them in due time.

He was heading North on Kingsroad, and it was all too reminiscent of his original departure to join the Night’s Watch. But he was several decades older now, as alone as a man could be, and weighed down with a destiney bigger than the sun.

Destiny: a concept that kept on coming up since the arrival of Godric Magnar. He didn’t know the man had been so superstitious, but experience makes a man and this Godric had significantly less and different experiences than the one Jon fought with on the battlefield. Godric had told him further about the soothsayer, Lara, and Jon was ashamed to admit her ideologies were the root of many of his nightmares.

Just the thought that all of the hard work he put in to change Westeros’s fate could be for naught and that the gods were just playing some cruel trick on him made his palms sweat and his heart beat erratically.

He dreamed of this soothsayer the night before with such vivid detail that the dream could’ve only been one of supernatural nature. He had never come across a northern soothsayer in his travels, so it was new territory for him. This woman wound herbs and feathers into her hair, and wore a string of teeth and gemstone around her neck. Her hair was a dull greyish brown and her skin was ashy and cracked. She had a thin, angular face, with protruding cheekbones and a long, thin nose. Her eyes were light robin’s egg blue. She spoke to him in this dream, with a deep husky voice laced with urgency and magic. 

_ Prince-  _ she addressed him as-  _ changing the course of destiny is no easy feat. You can’t rewrite a book without leaving traces of the original behind. Up here in the North, it’s about balance. That’s the way it should be everywhere. Right now, in this timeline, the scale is horribly unbalanced. And balance? It requires sacrifice. Beware, Prince. The worst is yet to come. _

The dream had been so real that he could smell the tang of her breath. He was starting to think it was, in fact, a vision. It was disconcerting.

This Lara must’ve died early in the Long Night. Or perhaps she hid away. Both of those possibilities didn’t really say much for her usefulness, so Jon paid little mind to them. A part of Jon wanted to see her again, though. To get a chance to talk to her. One aspect of Jon’s blood he didn’t have much time to explore was that of the First Men. Jon was a warg- he knew that; the bond he shared with Ghost wasn’t naturally occuring. He wondered if he could’ve warged with Rhaegal, though, or have pushed his abilities past the occasional dream and command. He bet she would know how to do it, or at least instruct him on how.

Dreaming on four legs was always such a welcome reprieve during the weary and taxing Long Night. Even though Ghost wasn’t without pain himself, there was something about it. The freedom, maybe, or the mindfulness. He couldn’t wait for Ghost to be reborn again. He already knew it was going to be one of the best days of his life.

As another large caravan of travelers passed him on Kingsroad, he slowed his horse to a stop and contemplated his position. Jon must’ve looked quite abnormal- a boy travelling alone on a thoroughbred horse along with a Valyrian sword and a rucksack packed with tomes in foreign languages. He either looked like a mad man or a runaway, and neither labels were particularly beneficial to the inconspicuousness he wanted to project. He was sure to raise some questions eventually.

He took a swing of water, pulled his horse off the road, and made an impulsive decision. He was going to travel aside the road through the forest. Not only would it be easier to lose someone if they were tailing him (there really would be no need for anyone to do so, but Jon’s mind was still trained for vigilance), but Jon had always felt at peace in forests. They reminded him of the Godswood.

The horse’s hooves made dull thumping noises as it rummages through the brush and into the thick of the forest. The strong scent of pine and cedar pervaded through the air. It would take a little longer not on the road, but at this point, they had time to spare.

As he travelled absentmindedly, he found himself humming a song beneath his breath. It was an old Northern song, one which the free folk often sang when under the influence of a little too much ale. It was a hearty song, one of courage and independence. Mindful of his lonesomeness, Jon started to mumble the lyrics under his breath, lighting up the surrounding forest with genial noise.

_ Where’er we roam _

_ _ _ These lands are home _

_ _ _ We persist, we are strong! _

_ _ _ We dance in the snow _

_ _ _ And the cool winds blow _

_ _ _ And sing their sacred song _

_ _

_ _ _ Oh! There’s a union of the night, _

_ _ _ A strength within the cold _

_ _ _ We kneel to no king, _

_ _ _ We laugh and we sing, _

_ _ _ And carry with us the days of olde _

_ _

_ _ _ We kneel to no king, _

_ We laugh and we sing, _

_ And carry with us the days of olde _

_ _

_ _ _ We are brave, and we are free! _

_ We have the spirit and unity _

_ And as the wind blows _

_ And as the snow falls, _

_ We know these mem’ries _

_ Are sweet for none but we _

His voice once again faded into a low hum as his horse trotted into a clearing. _ _ He was pleasantly surprised to see a large weirwood.

Its thick roots crawled across the hard ground and its branches reached high into the gray sky. A face was carved into it, but it must’ve been done thousands of years ago considering the tree had almost regenerated the carved bark. Sap leaked from the eyes of the face and it gave the tree an illusion of melancholy. It was like the weirwood was crying its very own essence. He dismounted his horse and looked at it for a few moments. A chilled wind blew in a strong gust, making its leaves rustle with familiarity. 

“What are you doing here?” He mumbled beneath his breath. It was odd seeing a weirwood like this in the middle of nowhere. Especially one just as grand.

Jon quickly contemplated his options before taking a few slow steps forward and kneeling down at the base of the trunk. A patch of dry dirt dusted up into the air from beneath his knees.

He stared at the crying face and thought back to the Night King’s origins. Specifically, to the Children of the Forest. They had owned these lands thousands and thousands of years ago. They had known it, been one with it. They worshipped their gods beneath their weirwoods, carving faces into their robust white trunks. Then the First Men (people who Jon had been taught to be proud of as his ancestors) ruined it all with their weapons, idols, and entitlement. 

The ancientness of his surroundings always filled him with a sense of awe. History was all around him, especially in the North, and he felt its power thrumming beyond the caves and in the snowy sky. It was invigorating, but somber. Nostalgic, but wondrous.

He closed his eyes, bowed his head, and searched for the right words to say.

“I…” he began, hesitant, “I am at a loss.”

The air felt thick and heavy around him.

He took a deep rattling breath, “Everyone turns to me and I am too proud to admit I am just as clueless in these circumstances as they are.”

His actions were already changing the course of history, causing things to happen that were never experienced before. He had no clue what was going to happen next, or what people would end up betraying the Stark family in this timeline. For all he knew, there would be just as much consequence in stopping the Long Night than letting it run its course.

“I am going North on a whim. Answers seem to uncover themselves there. But really, I’m flying by the seat of my pants.”

Jon shifted, opening his eyes to gaze upon the weirwoods face.

“Please let things turn out okay. I am willing to risk it all - I give everything to the cause  _ just _ for a favorable outcome. Please let my actions not be in vain. Please let the sun shine for years to come. The sun… it's so lovely.”

He licked his lips, trying to fight the desperation and despair that climbed its way into his voice. He stayed silent for a few minutes, before suddenly shaking his head and standing up.

“What am I even doing?” He muttered cynically, “This isn’t even a Godswood.”

He brushed the dirt off his trousers and turned back to his horse, sparing one last glance at the tree. It cried back at him, and a crow shrilly cawed overhead.

He mounted the horse roughly, his back turned. Then, almost instinctively, his arm reached up and plucked a crimson leaf from the weirwood. He stared at it with something that could almost be labelled shock before crumbling it slightly and shoving it into his bag with abrupt anger.

He rode past the tree hastily, his horse snorting vigorously.

His mouth turned into a frown as he noticed the quickly darkening sky, realizing the day was almost over and he hadn’t eaten yet. At the thought, his stomach made a loud rumbling noise as if on cue.

Sometimes he wished he could suspend all bodily functions so he wouldn’t be held back. Sleep, food, and water were quite annoying to deal with, especially when you had other pressing matters at hand.

He stopped the horse again with frustration and dismounted, grabbing his bow and a quiver of arrows. He winced as his hand touched something sticky on the quiver. Unfortunately, he didn’t have an unlimited supply of arrows and was forced to reuse them. Whenever he stumbled upon a river or lake he tried to wash them, but nevertheless a sticky residue of mud, blood, and animal guts seemed to perpetually reside on the arrows. He wanted to cringe at the thought of further dirtying them, but a bow was much more efficient to hunt small mammals than a sword was, so it was basically inevitable.

Jon took a deep breath, then forced himself to be quiet. Hopefully he would be able to catch a rabbit, but a squirrel or bird would do just fine if he stumbled upon them. 

He wondered farther from the horse (he was thinking of naming her, but hadn’t decided on a suitable name yet) and strained his ears. A bird sang in a nearby tree, but its musical trill was too light and high for it to be a bird of any sustenance. 

His head slowly revolved as he kept his breathing as soft as it could be. He steadied his boots on the ground and pulled an arrow from the quiver, readying himself.

Eventually, he heard a twig snap. Barely constraining himself, he turned to face the direction in which the sound came from while notching an arrow. 

A rabbit hopped out from beneath the brush and Jon could almost yell in relief. He pulled back the bowstring with a steady grip, but right when he released it, the rabbit caught sight of him and hopped away.

The arrow landed in a tree with a shrill  _ twang _ that echoed throughout the forest. Jon groaned in annoyance and immaturely stamped his foot.

Then, though, in a burst of luck (or perhaps it was just the naturalness of the ecosystem around him), a flock of dark birds were startled into the air by the sudden noise. His heart thumping erratically, Jon rushed his hand to the quiver, pulled an arrow out and notched within a span of a second. He aimed for the sky and shot it, hoping that it would hit a target. He watched it soar upwards, and just when it looked like it had missed the flock, a bird unlike the others swooped down and was shot by the arrow. It fell to the ground with a dull thud.

He slowly lowered his bow, furrowing his eyebrows in confusion. Did that bird have a death wish or what? It flew straight into the path of the arrow out of nowhere.

He walked towards the carcass, treading lightly on the ground. He shouldered his quiver and slung the bow around his arm. As he approached the dead bird, a feeling of unfounded trepidation began to rise in his belly.

There, on the ground, lying on a pillow of moss was a dead raven. The arrow protruding from its side wiggled as the bird shuddered its last few breaths. Jon’s mouth suddenly went dry.

He brought his hands down to grab the bird and he ignored how they shook. Its skin was still warm to the touch and was squishy and malleable in his strong fist. It was an omen, perhaps. About the Three-Eyed Raven. Jon thought back to the mother direwolf they found all those years ago (although technically it had not happened yet) and how symbolic it was for years to come. He tried to push the thoughts out of his mind, and instead focused on plucking the bird’s feathers from its twitching form and finding his horse.

He really did need to come up with a name for the animal.

Once he found and was greeted by the mare with a loud neigh, he started to build a fire and cook the bird.

As the sun vanquished all light from the sky and the moon hung low on the horizon, he ate the raven despite having a relatively low appetite.

Whatever that was coming next was going to be impactful, that was for sure.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope everyone’s safe and healthy. 
> 
> Here’s a question you can leave a suggestion for in the comments: What should I name the horse? Lol. 
> 
> I feel like the story is pretty boring, but things will pick up soon. Thanks for reading!


	16. Jaime IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime and Tyrion arrive at Winterfell.

Ned Stark was waiting for Jaime and Tyrion at the gates to Winterfell. He stood tall draped in a large fur cloak, and his hard and stoic face undoubtedly reminded him of Jon. Everyone who had met Jon had their own opinions on which parent he took after in looks, and although they unanimously agreed Jon had Stark coloring, his facial structure was always in hot debate. Seeing Ned Stark in front of him now, and comparing him to the older Jon in Jaime’s memories, Jon definitely had the signature Stark brood.

Jaime had wanted to ride through Wintertown as discreetly as possible, ashamed of their shabby appearance, but Tyrion, ever the voice of reason, had convinced him that would be against their public reputation and would fuel suspicion among the northern commonfolk. So, instead, they had ridden with their backs straight and their faces unobstructed, albeit through a sleepier section of the town.

And now, at the gates to the castle, they were relatively alone despite quite a few curious but embarrassingly conspicuous onlookers. Jaime sighed a great sigh of relief. It had been a  _ long  _ journey.

“Ser Jaime, Lord Tyrion.” Ned Stark addressed stiffly, “I am glad you’ve made it here. I hope your journey was well?”

Ah. So they were playing up the pleasantries until they were alone. 

“We had a few mishaps along the way, Lord Stark, but we did make it here unharmed.”

“Mhm.” He replied, “Would you care to come inside? A stable boy will take care of the horses for you.”

“We would be pleased to,” he replied before swiftly dismounting. He walked over and helped Tyrion off his horse before dusting off his pants absentmindedly and following Ned.

They got strange looks as they walked the ancient halls of Winterfell. They must’ve been a sight: two grungy-looking southern lords. Their bears were long and unkept, their clothing was teared and stained. They didn’t look very Lannister-like, and they were sure to start the spread of rumors. They’d have to control it somehow. Make up a story, share it, and make sure it wouldn’t be a disaster if it made it back to their father.

“I’m sure we can wait a bit for the negotiations to start.” Ned said while walking, “You’ve had a long journey. I’ll show you to your quarters so you can rest up for now.”

Ah. A real bed did sound nice.

“That sounds wonderful, Lord Stark.” Tyrion replied, “Thank you.”

They stopped in a long hallway, and a tapestry on the wall rippled with the wind from outside.

“Ser Jaime” - he addressed while gesturing to a door to his right - “Your room. And Lord Tyrion” - he swept his hands to his left - “This one here is yours.”

Jaime scooted over to the left and, after a moment of brief hesitation, decided to speak quietly, “Lord Stark, I assume you know about the whole… thing. When will we get a chance to speak alone? And, well, where is Jon?”

Ned’s eyes flitted down the hall in both directions, and he pocketed his hands. “Yes, well. I do know. Quite a shock, really. I’ll take a lap around the castle and meet you in your room I suppose. I’ll bring everyone else who knows. And Jon, well, he’s already started trekking North. He believed there was no time to waste.”

Tyrion and Jaime exchanged a look.

“Smart man,” Tyrion clipped with a frown after a short pause.

“Ah, well. I would say so. I’ll be back soon.” Ned turned and strided down the hallway, his footsteps echoing.

Jaime ushered Tyrion into his room silently, wondering just how they got into this situation.

A few months ago, you can say there were two Jaime Lannisters: one a resident of King’s Landing, and an upstanding member of the Kinsguard, ignorant of what was to come, prideful, and egoistic. The other wasting away and fighting for his life in the frigid North, battle-hardened with unescapable solemnity. Now, one’s mind was in the body of the other. He felt almost like an imposter, an actor; he was not who everyone believed he was. But at the same time, he was still Jaime Lannister, born to Tywin and Joanna, twin to Cersei. A personality doesn’t change an identity ( _ or does it?) _ . To be frank, it made him tired just to think of it.

“I can’t believe we missed Jon,” Tyrion said in a low voice which echoed against the walls. “What’d he do? Just decide to go off on his own like he’s indestructible. He knew we were coming. Knew we could help.”

“You know Jon,” said Jaime while he began to prep the fireplace. “He’s a man who goes with his gut.”

“Yeah,” scoffed Tyrion. “And I guess the venison he had to break his fast told him to get the fuck out of here.”

“Don’t be daft.” Jaime smirked, “Nobody eats venison in the morning. It was the porridge, I bet.”

Tyrion guffawed in a slightly scathing manner. “He could’ve at least stuck around to tell us what the hell happened. What’s going to happen.”

Although he kind of agreed with Tyrion, he tried to see it Jons way. “Or maybe not. Who knows what he knows? He’s a hard nut to crack.”

“A hard nut, indeed.”

“Ah-hah!” Jaime exclaimed as a flame flickered to life in the fireplace. He rubbed his hands together and looked at Tyrion. “I haven’t had to make a fire in a fireplace in a long time. In the wilderness, sure, but not in a fireplace. Servants usually do that.”

“But for now, we lie low. No prying servants until tonight, probably.”   
  
Jaime remembered the curious eyes which racked over him and Tyrion as they entered the castle grounds and heartily voiced his agreement.  


Suddenly, a knock resounded on the door.

“Come in,” he called out.

“If you know the secret password, that is,” Tyrion added cheekily. 

Jaime shot him a glare.

“I….uhh…I don’t-” was heard from beyond the door.

“He’s joking,” Jaime said amusedly as he stood up and opened the door to reveal a confused Ned Stark along with what appeared to be Catelyn Tully Stark and a young Robb Stark. He gave one of his best smiles and hoped it didn’t seem too fake. “Please come in.”

They trickled in one by one, and Robb’s eyes comically widened at the sight of Tyrion’s short frame. He tried to play it off by looking away, but after sharing a look with Tyrion, he knew it failed to escape both of their notices. It was to be expected though, Robb probably lived a sheltered life all isolated up North.

The door shut and was firmly locked.

“So… we are not actually here for ice,” Jaime said awkwardly.

“No, I suppose not.” Lord Stark replied, “Your letter came as quite a surprise.”

“Jon could hardly believe it.” Robb added, “He said that wasn’t the plan.”

“It wasn’t,” Tyrion agreed and Jaime nodded his head.

“A part of me is still shocked that we were able to bring Jon back at all. The fact that we’re here too... “ he trailed off and decided to save his worrying thoughts for later, “I wonder who else is out there who has an extra decade’s worth of memories,” Jaime finished.

“More…. You think there could be more out there?” Lady Catleyn said, her attention turning to Jaime.

“Well…” he hesitated, “If we’re here, then there’s a chance that others could be.”

“But what if someone evil remembers?” Robb asked, voice laced with worry.

“I don’t think thats possible.” Tyrion interjected. “So far, at least, everyone who’s been brought back was alive at the end of the line and lived through the spell. At that point, the only humans there were fighting  _ against  _ the Night King. All the common evil-doers had already died by then.”

The room was filled with a stagnant pause.

“So, what we’re here for really. We wanted to come and see what help we could offer. And talking person-to-person is a lot more secure than sending ravens out,” Jaime said.

“Of course.” Lord Stark agreed, “Jon planned for your arrival and what should happen. Robb, you have the note, right?”

“Er, yes.” Robb said as he fumbled into his pocket to pull out a crumpled piece of parchment. His face blushed as red as his hair and he tried to flatten it, “A few questions first, if that’s all right.”

At the Lannister’s silence, he read from the paper.

“Jaime- would you prefer to return to King’s Landing and pull strings from the belly of the beast, or renounce your place in the kingsguard and help from either Casterly Rock, Winterfell, or the Wall?”

As Robb read, Jaime’s eyebrows rose higher and higher. He quickly weighed his options in his head.

He had thought to return to King's Landing solely because he hadn’t thought there was another option. Renouncing your place in the kingsguard was nearly unheard of. There were a few accounts throughout history, however, and they usually occurred either after a change of power or when a knight was the last fertile member of a family. Jaime’s father had been trying to pull Jaime from the kingsguard for years because, in his words, Jaime was his “last, ahem,  _ true _ heir.” Of course, if he were to leave the kingsguard behind, his father would most likely order him back to Casterly Rock and arrange a marriage as quickly as possible. But he didn’t need to listen to his father. There were greater things at stake than his father’s wrath.

A position in King’s Landing would be both detrimental and beneficial. He would be near Cersei again, and her presence seemed to bring out the worst of him. Communication up North would also be hard. On the other hand, following the royal family around was a great way to get information. It would just be a matter on whether or not the information would be useful.

In Casterly Rock, assumedly married, Jaime would be restrained, but powerful. He could ally with the North and support their ventures, but he wouldn’t be able to leave or put himself into the midst of things. Communication would also be hard.

In Winterfell, he would be free to both do whatever he wanted and to help to the greatest extent possible. When Jon returned, he’d also have his company and guidance. But his father (and Cersei) would be confused and livid. Officially, there was nothing tying Jaime to Winterfell.

At the Wall, or beyond it, would be the hardest option. There was no room for pride and luxury in the chilled wastelands up north. If he renounced his place in the kingsguard, though, taking the black would be an easy cop-out for settling down. There, he’d be able to help with the Long Night situation hands-on.

Jaime must’ve made a face at the hard decision, or perhaps he took too long to answer, because Robb Stark told him he had time to make the choice and that he had Jon’s instructions when he was ready.

“Tyrion-” Robb continued, “you have a greater range of options. If you chose to stay in Winterfell, I have a variety of opportunities for you, and if you chose to go elsewhere, anywhere, really, I have another set of opportunities. All of these play to your strengths.”

Tyrion tilted his head and licked his lips. “Jaime, if you stay North, I will go South, and if you go South, I will stay North. How about that for a plan.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

“Ok then.” said Robb Stark, “Just get back to me on that.”

They both affirmed that they would, and after a momentary silence, Lady Catelyn hesitantly began to speak.

“Do you happen to know an Erwyn, by any chance? He resides in King’s Landing,” Lady Stark said and although the name rang no bells in Jaime’s mind, Tyrion seemed to recognize it.

“Yes, uh… He’s a servant in the castle, right?”

“Yes,” Catelyn said, “Apparently he’s back from the future as well. He got in contact and said he’s willing to spy in King’s Landing. If neither of you end up there, we can still have eyes and ears in the castle.”

“He’s already supplied useful information about Robert.” Lord Stark added, “and in his first letter he revealed there were others in King’s Landing that expressed their interests in helping. Perhaps they were brought back as well.”

Jaime shared a look with Tyrion.  _ How did this happen? _

* * *

The fires casted warm shadows onto the wall as Tyrion and Jaime quietly sipped their ales in the dark dining hall. Despite being exhausted, sleep would not come to either of them. Their minds were too busy racing to rest.

Although in reality their choices concerning their placements were far from ultimatums, they almost felt that way. 

Oddly enough, the first time around, Jaime hardly felt like he could change history with a single choice. He just let destiny guide him, and more often than not did what Jon did during the Long Night. But now, the second time around, he felt the weight of his decisions heavily upon his shoulders. With a single choice, he could set in place a chain of events that could make or break a plan they all sacrificed so much for. He tried to ignore his shaking hands as he took another swig of ale.

“Coin for your thoughts?” Jaime asked, and his voice echoed within the dark hall.

Tyrion sighed and shook his head, remaining silent for a few seconds before replying, “I’m thinking that no matter what choice we make, there are going to be major pitfalls.”

“But what is the lesser evil?” Jaime asked, not sure if he intended it to be rhetorical or not.

“The lesser evil now might be the greater evil later.” Tyrion replied sagely, “I’m starting to come to the conclusion we should just go with our instincts.”

“But what  _ do _ our instincts tell us?” Jaime sighed.

They lapsed into silence once more as the question went unanswered.

“It's kind of weird,” Jaime said after a moment, “seeing the Starks alive.”

Tyrion chuckled in agreement, “Robb Stark is so  _ young _ and  _ green _ . Hard to imagine he led armies.”

Jaime drained the rest of his glass in one chug. 

“We were all so young.  _ Too _ young. And now we’re too old for our bodies. Have we ever been the ideal age for any of the circumstances of our lives?”

“S’pose not.”

“I mean, I was too young to be in a relationship with Cersei-”

“If you call fucking a relationship-”

“Too young to kill the godsdamned king-”

“Well you were the only one with enough balls to do it-”

“And now I’m too old to be dealing with this whole do-over business! Wasn’t one round of misery enough?”

“Now, I agree with you at that, brother.”

They laughed boisterously, spurred on by the alcohol.

“Well brother,” Jaime announced while standing up, “I think it’s about time to retire. My bed is calling me.”

Tyrion’s reply, however, fell on deaf ears.

“Did you see that?” Jaime asked, his eyes trained on one of the fireplaces.

“See what?” Tyrion sounded confused.

“I thought I saw something…” Jaime walked closer to the fire and stared into the depths of the flames. Then all of a sudden, he felt like the wind was knocked out of him.

Images rapidly flashed before his eyes, too quick to discern what they were, and sounds clashed in his ears. His entire body shook uncontrollably as he fell to the floor, tears streaming down his face.

He couldn’t even hear Tyrion desperately calling for help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, it’s been a while. But rest assured, sticking with this story to the end no matter what! 
> 
> What should Jon’s horse be named? Comment a suggestion before Chapter 19 and it could be randomly selected!
> 
> Thanks for reading! Stay safe and healthy.

**Author's Note:**

> Believe it or not, I have not watched Game of Thrones, nor read the book series, but I feel pretty confident in my knowledge. Please feel free to correct me though if I get something wrong! 
> 
> On another note, I hope you enjoy this! Kudos, comments, subscriptions, and bookmarks are always greatly appreciated. Thank you so much and have a fantastic day!


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